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diff --git a/637-h/637-h.htm b/637-h/637-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..11f541f --- /dev/null +++ b/637-h/637-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,13363 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson to his Family and Friends - Volume 2 [of 2], by Robert Louis Stevenson</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .5em; + text-decoration: none;} + span.red { color: red; } + body {background-color: #ffffc0; } + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson to his +Family and Friends - Volume 2 [of 2], by Robert Louis Stevenson, Edited by +Sidney Colvin + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson to his Family and Friends - Volume 2 [of 2] + + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + +Editor: Sidney Colvin + +Release Date: August 27, 2019 [eBook #637] +[This file was first posted on July 11, 1996] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LETTERS OF ROBERT LOUIS +STEVENSON TO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS - VOLUME 1 [OF 2]*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1906 Methuen and Co edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/cover.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" + src="images/cover.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/fpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Robert Louis Stevenson" +title= +"Robert Louis Stevenson" + src="images/fps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>THE LETTERS OF<br /> +<span style='color: #ff0000'>ROBERT LOUIS</span><br /> +<span style='color: #ff0000'>STEVENSON</span></h1> +<p style="text-align: center">TO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SELECTED AND EDITED WITH<br /> +NOTES AND INTRODUCTION BY</p> +<p style="text-align: center">SIDNEY COLVIN</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">VOLUME +II</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">LONDON</span><br /> +<span style='color: #ff0000'>METHUEN AND CO.</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">36 ESSEX STREET</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Seventh Edition</i></p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><i>First Published</i></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>November 1899</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Second Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>November 1899</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Third Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>April 1900</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Fourth Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>November 1900</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Fifth Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>January 1901</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Sixth Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>October 1902</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Seventh Edition</i></p> +</td> +<td><p><i>December 1906</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: center">VIII<br /> +LIFE AT BOURNEMOUTH—<i>Continued</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page6">6</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: center">IX<br /> +THE UNITED STATES AGAIN<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">WINTER IN THE ADIRONDACKS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: center">X<br /> +PACIFIC VOYAGES</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page114">114</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: center">XI<br /> +LIFE IN SAMOA</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page209">209</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: center">XII<br /> +LIFE IN SAMOA—<i>continued</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page285">285</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>VIII<br +/> +LIFE AT BOURNEMOUTH,<br /> +<i>Continued</i>,<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">JANUARY 1886-JULY 1887.</span></h2> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. de Mattos</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>], <i>January</i> 1<i>st</i>, 1886.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAREST KATHARINE</span>,—Here, +on a very little book and accompanied with lame verses, I have +put your name. Our kindness is now getting well on in +years; it must be nearly of age; and it gets more valuable to me +with every time I see you. It is not possible to express +any sentiment, and it is not necessary to try, at least between +us. You know very well that I love you dearly, and that I +always will. I only wish the verses were better, but at +least you like the story; and it is sent to you by the one that +loves you—Jekyll, and not Hyde.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Ave</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">Bells upon the city are ringing in the +night;<br /> +High above the gardens are the houses full of light;<br /> +On the heathy Pentlands is the curlew flying free;<br /> +And the broom is blowing bonnie in the north countrie.</p> +<p class="poetry">We cannae break the bonds that God decreed to +bind,<br /> +Still we’ll be the children of the heather and the wind;<br +/> +Far away from home, O, it’s still for you and me<br /> +That the broom is blowing bonnie in the north countrie!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span><span +class="smcap">to Alison Cunningham</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>], 1<i>st</i>, 1886.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR KINNICUM</span>,—I am a +very bad dog, but not for the first time. Your book, which +is very interesting, came duly; and I immediately got a very bad +cold indeed, and have been fit for nothing whatever. I am a +bit better now, and aye on the mend; so I write to tell you, I +thought of you on New Year’s Day; though, I own, it would +have been more decent if I had thought in time for you to get my +letter then. Well, what can’t be cured must be +endured, Mr. Lawrie; and you must be content with what I +give. If I wrote all the letters I ought to write, and at +the proper time, I should be very good and very happy; but I +doubt if I should do anything else.</p> +<p>I suppose you will be in town for the New Year; and I hope +your health is pretty good. What you want is diet; but it +is as much use to tell you that as it is to tell my father. +And I quite admit a diet is a beastly thing. I doubt, +however, if it be as bad as not being allowed to speak, which I +have tried fully, and do not like. When, at the same time, +I was not allowed to read, it passed a joke. But these are +troubles of the past, and on this day, at least, it is proper to +suppose they won’t return. But we are not put here to +enjoy ourselves: it was not God’s purpose; and I am +prepared to argue, it is not our sincere wish. As for our +deserts, the less said of them the better, for somebody might +hear, and nobody cares to be laughed at. A good man is a +very noble thing to see, but not to himself; what he seems to God +is, fortunately, not our business; that is the domain of faith; +and whether on the first of January or the thirty-first of +December, faith is a good word to end on.</p> +<p>My dear Cummy, many happy returns to you and my best +love.—The worst correspondent in the world,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span><span +class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>], <i>January</i> 1<i>st</i>, 1886.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—Many happy +returns of the day to you all; I am fairly well and in good +spirits; and much and hopefully occupied with dear Jenkin’s +life. The inquiry in every detail, every letter that I +read, makes me think of him more nobly. I cannot imagine +how I got his friendship; I did not deserve it. I believe +the notice will be interesting and useful.</p> +<p>My father’s last letter, owing to the use of a quill pen +and the neglect of blotting-paper, was hopelessly +illegible. Every one tried, and every one failed to +decipher an important word on which the interest of one whole +clause (and the letter consisted of two) depended.</p> +<p>I find I can make little more of this; but I’ll spare +the blots.—Dear people, ever your loving son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>I will try again, being a giant refreshed by the house being +empty. The presence of people is the great obstacle to +letter-writing. I deny that letters should contain news (I +mean mine; those of other people should). But mine should +contain appropriate sentiments and humorous nonsense, or nonsense +without the humour. When the house is empty, the mind is +seized with a desire—no, that is too strong—a +willingness to pour forth unmitigated rot, which constitutes (in +me) the true spirit of correspondence. When I have no +remarks to offer (and nobody to offer them to), my pen flies, and +you see the remarkable consequence of a page literally covered +with words and genuinely devoid of sense. I can always do +that, if quite alone, and I like doing it; but I have yet to +learn that it is beloved by correspondents. The deuce of it +is, that there is no end possible but the end of the paper; and +as there is very little left of that—if I cannot stop +writing—suppose you give up reading. It would all +come to the same thing; and I think we should all be happier . . +.</p> +<h3><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span><span +class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>], <i>Jan.</i> 2<i>nd</i>, 1886.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—<i>Lamia</i> +has come, and I do not know how to thank you, not only for the +beautiful art of the designs, but for the handsome and apt words +of the dedication. My favourite is ‘Bathes +unseen,’ which is a masterpiece; and the next, ‘Into +the green recessed woods,’ is perhaps more remarkable, +though it does not take my fancy so imperiously. The night +scene at Corinth pleases me also. The second part offers +fewer opportunities. I own I should like to see both +<i>Isabella</i> and the <i>Eve</i> thus illustrated; and then +there’s <i>Hyperion</i>—O, yes, and +<i>Endymion</i>! I should like to see the lot: beautiful +pictures dance before me by hundreds: I believe <i>Endymion</i> +would suit you best. It also is in faery-land; and I see a +hundred opportunities, cloudy and flowery glories, things as +delicate as the cobweb in the bush; actions, not in themselves of +any mighty purport, but made for the pencil: the feast of Pan, +Peona’s isle, the ‘slabbed margin of a well,’ +the chase of the butterfly, the nymph, Glaucus, Cybele, Sleep on +his couch, a farrago of unconnected beauties. But I +divagate; and all this sits in the bosom of the publisher.</p> +<p>What is more important, I accept the terms of the dedication +with a frank heart, and the terms of your Latin legend +fairly. The sight of your pictures has once more awakened +me to my right mind; something may <a name="page10"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 10</span>come of it; yet one more bold push to +get free of this prisonyard of the abominably ugly, where I take +my daily exercise with my contemporaries. I do not know, I +have a feeling in my bones, a sentiment which may take on the +forms of imagination, or may not. If it does, I shall owe +it to you; and the thing will thus descend from Keats even if on +the wrong side of the blanket. If it can be done in +prose—that is the puzzle—I divagate again. +Thank you again: you can draw and yet you do not love the ugly: +what are you doing in this age? Flee, while it is yet time; +they will have your four limbs pinned upon a stable door to scare +witches. The ugly, my unhappy friend, is <i>de rigueur</i>: +it is the only wear! What a chance you threw away with the +serpent! Why had Apollonius no pimples? Heavens, my +dear Low, you do not know your business. . . .</p> +<p>I send you herewith a Gothic gnome for your Greek nymph; but +the gnome is interesting, I think, and he came out of a deep +mine, where he guards the fountain of tears. It is not +always the time to rejoice.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>The gnome’s name is <i>Jekyll & Hyde</i>; I believe +you will find he is likewise quite willing to answer to the name +of Low or Stevenson.</p> +<p><i>Same day</i>.—I have copied out on the other sheet +some bad verses, which somehow your picture suggested; as a kind +of image of things that I pursue and cannot reach, and that you +seem—no, not to have reached—but to have come a +thought nearer to than I. This is the life we have chosen: +well, the choice was mad, but I should make it again.</p> +<p>What occurs to me is this: perhaps they might be printed in +(say) the <i>Century</i> for the sake of my name; and if that +were possible, they might advertise your book. It might be +headed as sent in acknowledgment of your <i>Lamia</i>. Or +perhaps it might be introduced by the phrases I have marked +above. I dare say they would stick it in: <a +name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>I want no +payment, being well paid by <i>Lamia</i>. If they are not, +keep them to yourself.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Will H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Damned bad lines in return for a +beautiful book</i></p> +<p class="poetry">Youth now flees on feathered foot.<br /> +Faint and fainter sounds the flute;<br /> +Rarer songs of Gods.<br /> + + +And still,<br /> +Somewhere on the sunny hill,<br /> +Or along the winding stream,<br /> +Through the willows, flits a dream;<br /> +Flits, but shows a smiling face,<br /> +Flees, but with so quaint a grace,<br /> +None can choose to stay at home,<br /> +All must follow—all must roam.<br /> +This is unborn beauty: she<br /> +Now in air floats high and free,<br /> +Takes the sun, and breaks the blue;—<br /> +Late, with stooping pinion flew<br /> +Raking hedgerow trees, and wet<br /> +Her wing in silver streams, and set<br /> +Shining foot on temple roof.<br /> +Now again she flies aloof,<br /> +Coasting mountain clouds, and kissed<br /> +By the evening’s amethyst.<br /> +In wet wood and miry lane<br /> +Still we pound and pant in vain;<br /> +Still with earthy foot we chase<br /> +Waning pinion, fainting face;<br /> +Still, with grey hair, we stumble on<br /> +Till—behold!—the vision gone!<br /> +Where has fleeting beauty led?<br /> +To the doorway of the dead!<br /> +qy. omit? [Life is gone, but life was gay:<br /> +We have come the primrose way!] <a name="citation11"></a><a +href="#footnote11" class="citation">[11]</a></p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span><span +class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>Jan.</i> 2<i>nd</i>, 1886.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—Thank you +for your letter, so interesting to my vanity. There is a +review in the St. James’s, which, as it seems to hold +somewhat of your opinions, and is besides written with a pen and +not a poker, we think may possibly be yours. The +<i>Prince</i> <a name="citation12"></a><a href="#footnote12" +class="citation">[12]</a> has done fairly well in spite of the +reviews, which have been bad: he was, as you doubtless saw, well +slated in the <i>Saturday</i>; one paper received it as a +child’s story; another (picture my agony) described it as a +‘Gilbert comedy.’ It was amusing to see the +race between me and Justin M’Carthy: the Milesian has won +by a length.</p> +<p>That is the hard part of literature. You aim high, and +you take longer over your work, and it will not be so successful +as if you had aimed low and rushed it. What the public +likes is work (of any kind) a little loosely executed; so long as +it is a little wordy, a little slack, a little dim and knotless, +the dear public likes it; it should (if possible) be a little +dull into the bargain. I know that good work sometimes +hits; but, with my hand on my heart, I think it is by an +accident. And I know also that good work must succeed at +last; but that is not the doing of the public; they are only +shamed into silence or affectation. I do not write for the +public; I do write for money, a nobler deity; and most of all for +myself, not perhaps any more noble, but both more intelligent and +nearer home.</p> +<p>Let us tell each other sad stories of the bestiality of the +beast whom we feed. What he likes is the newspaper; and to +me the press is the mouth of a sewer, where lying is professed as +from an university chair, and everything prurient, and ignoble, +and essentially dull, finds its abode and pulpit. I do not +like mankind; but men, and not all <a name="page13"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 13</span>of these—and fewer women. +As for respecting the race, and, above all, that fatuous rabble +of burgesses called ‘the public,’ God save me from +such irreligion!—that way lies disgrace and +dishonour. There must be something wrong in me, or I would +not be popular.</p> +<p>This is perhaps a trifle stronger than my sedate and permanent +opinion. Not much, I think. As for the art that we +practise, I have never been able to see why its professors should +be respected. They chose the primrose path; when they found +it was not all primroses, but some of it brambly, and much of it +uphill, they began to think and to speak of themselves as holy +martyrs. But a man is never martyred in any honest sense in +the pursuit of his pleasure; and <i>delirium tremens</i> has more +of the honour of the cross. We were full of the pride of +life, and chose, like prostitutes, to live by a pleasure. +We should be paid if we give the pleasure we pretend to give; but +why should we be honoured?</p> +<p>I hope some day you and Mrs. Gosse will come for a Sunday; but +we must wait till I am able to see people. I am very full +of Jenkin’s life; it is painful, yet very pleasant, to dig +into the past of a dead friend, and find him, at every spadeful, +shine brighter. I own, as I read, I wonder more and more +why he should have taken me to be a friend. He had many and +obvious faults upon the face of him; the heart was pure +gold. I feel it little pain to have lost him, for it is a +loss in which I cannot believe; I take it, against reason, for an +absence; if not to-day, then to-morrow, I still fancy I shall see +him in the door; and then, now when I know him better, how glad a +meeting! Yes, if I could believe in the immortality +business, the world would indeed be too good to be true; but we +were put here to do what service we can, for honour and not for +hire: the sods cover us, and the worm that never dies, the +conscience, sleeps well at last; these are the wages, besides +what we receive so lavishly day by day; and they are enough for +<a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>a man who +knows his own frailty and sees all things in the proportion of +reality. The soul of piety was killed long ago by that idea +of reward. Nor is happiness, whether eternal or temporal, +the reward that mankind seeks. Happinesses are but his +wayside campings; his soul is in the journey; he was born for the +struggle, and only tastes his life in effort and on the condition +that he is opposed. How, then, is such a creature, so +fiery, so pugnacious, so made up of discontent and aspiration, +and such noble and uneasy passions—how can he be rewarded +but by rest? I would not say it aloud; for man’s +cherished belief is that he loves that happiness which he +continually spurns and passes by; and this belief in some +ulterior happiness exactly fits him. He does not require to +stop and taste it; he can be about the rugged and bitter business +where his heart lies; and yet he can tell himself this fairy tale +of an eternal tea-party, and enjoy the notion that he is both +himself and something else; and that his friends will yet meet +him, all ironed out and emasculate, and still be +lovable,—as if love did not live in the faults of the +beloved only, and draw its breath in an unbroken round of +forgiveness! But the truth is, we must fight until we die; +and when we die there can be no quiet for mankind but complete +resumption into—what?—God, let us say—when all +these desperate tricks will lie spellbound at last.</p> +<p>Here came my dinner and cut this sermon +short—<i>excusez</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to James Payn</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>Jan.</i> 2<i>nd</i>, 1886.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR JAMES PAYN</span>,—Your very +kind letter came very welcome; and still more welcome the news +that you see <a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>—’s tale. I will now tell you (and it +was very good and very wise of me not to tell it before) that he +is one of the most unlucky men I know, having put all his money +into a pharmacy at Hyères, when the cholera (certainly not +his fault) swept away his customers in a body. Thus you can +imagine the pleasure I have to announce to him a spark of hope, +for he sits to-day in his pharmacy, doing nothing and taking +nothing, and watching his debts inexorably mount up.</p> +<p>To pass to other matters: your hand, you are perhaps aware, is +not one of those that can be read running; and the name of your +daughter remains for me undecipherable. I call her, then, +your daughter—and a very good name too—and I beg to +explain how it came about that I took her house. The +hospital was a point in my tale; but there is a house on each +side. Now the true house is the one before the hospital: is +that No. 11? If not, what do you complain of? If it +is, how can I help what is true? Everything in the +<i>Dynamiter</i> is not true; but the story of the Brown Box is, +in almost every particular; I lay my hand on my heart and swear +to it. It took place in that house in 1884; and if your +daughter was in that house at the time, all I can say is she must +have kept very bad society.</p> +<p>But I see you coming. Perhaps your daughter’s +house has not a balcony at the back? I cannot answer for +that; I only know that side of Queen Square from the pavement and +the back windows of Brunswick Row. Thence I saw plenty of +balconies (terraces rather); and if there is none to the +particular house in question, it must have been so arranged to +spite me.</p> +<p>I now come to the conclusion of this matter. I address +three questions to your daughter:—</p> +<p class="gutindent">1st. Has her house the proper +terrace?</p> +<p class="gutindent">2nd. Is it on the proper side of the +hospital?</p> +<p class="gutindent">3rd. Was she there in the summer of +1884?</p> +<p>You see, I begin to fear that Mrs. Desborough may <a +name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>have deceived +me on some trifling points, for she is not a lady of peddling +exactitude. If this should prove to be so, I will give your +daughter a proper certificate, and her house property will return +to its original value.</p> +<p>Can man say more?—Yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>I saw the other day that the Eternal had plagiarised from +<i>Lost Sir Massingberd</i>: good again, sir! I wish he +would plagiarise the death of Zero.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>Jan. Somethingorother-th</i>, 1886.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—I send you +two photographs: they are both done by Sir Percy Shelley, the +poet’s son, which may interest. The sitting down one +is, I think, the best; but if they choose that, see that the +little reflected light on the nose does not give me a turn-up; +that would be tragic. Don’t forget +‘Baronet’ to Sir Percy’s name.</p> +<p>We all think a heap of your book; and I am well pleased with +my dedication.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—<i>Apropos</i> of the odd controversy about +Shelley’s nose: I have before me four photographs of +myself, done by Shelley’s son: my nose is hooked, not like +the eagle, indeed, but like the accipitrine family in man: well, +out of these four, only one marks the bend, one makes it +straight, and one suggests a turn-up. This throws a flood +of light on calumnious man—and the scandal-mongering +sun. For personally I cling to my curve. To continue +the Shelley controversy: I have a look of him, <a +name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>all his +sisters had noses like mine; Sir Percy has a marked hook; all the +family had high cheek-bones like mine; what doubt, then, but that +this turn-up (of which Jeaffreson accuses the poet, along with +much other <i>fatras</i>) is the result of some accident similar +to what has happened in my photographs by his son?</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>January</i> 25, 1886.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—Many +thanks for a letter quite like yourself. I quite agree with +you, and had already planned a scene of religion in +<i>Balfour</i>; the Society for the Propagation of Christian +Knowledge furnishes me with a catechist whom I shall try to make +the man. I have another catechist, the blind, +pistol-carrying highway robber, whom I have transferred from the +Long Island to Mull. I find it a most picturesque period, +and wonder Scott let it escape. The <i>Covenant</i> is lost +on one of the Tarrans, and David is cast on Earraid, where (being +from inland) he is nearly starved before he finds out the island +is tidal; then he crosses Mull to Toronsay, meeting the blind +catechist by the way; then crosses Morven from Kinlochaline to +Kingairloch, where he stays the night with the good catechist; +that is where I am; next day he is to be put ashore in Appin, and +be present at Colin Campbell’s death. To-day I rest, +being a little run down. Strange how liable we are to brain +fag in this scooty family! But as far as I have got, all +but the last chapter, I think David is on his feet, and (to my +mind) a far better story and far sounder at heart than +<i>Treasure Island</i>.</p> +<p>I have no earthly news, living entirely in my story, and only +coming out of it to play patience. The Shelleys are gone; +the Taylors kinder than can be imagined. The other day, +Lady Taylor drove over and called on me; she is a delightful old +lady, and great fun. I mentioned a <a +name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>story about +the Duchess of Wellington which I had heard Sir Henry tell; and +though he was very tired, he looked it up and copied it out for +me in his own hand.—Your most affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to C. W. Stoddard</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>Feb.</i> 13<i>th</i>, 1886.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR STODDARD</span>,—I am a +dreadful character; but, you see, I have at last taken pen in +hand; how long I may hold it, God knows. This is already my +sixth letter to-day, and I have many more waiting; and my wrist +gives me a jog on the subject of scrivener’s cramp, which +is not encouraging.</p> +<p>I gather you were a little down in the jaw when you wrote your +last. I am as usual pretty cheerful, but not very +strong. I stay in the house all winter, which is base; but, +as you continue to see, the pen goes from time to time, though +neither fast enough nor constantly enough to please me.</p> +<p>My wife is at Bath with my father and mother, and the interval +of widowery explains my writing. Another person writing for +you when you have done work is a great enemy to +correspondence. To-day I feel out of health, and +shan’t work; and hence this so much overdue reply.</p> +<p>I was re-reading some of your South Sea Idyls the other day: +some of the chapters are very good indeed; some pages as good as +they can be.</p> +<p>How does your class get along? If you like to touch on +<i>Otto</i>, any day in a by-hour, you may tell them—as the +author’s last dying confession—that it is a strange +example of the difficulty of being ideal in an age of realism; +that the unpleasant giddy-mindedness, which spoils the book and +often gives it a wanton air of unreality and juggling with +air-bells, comes from unsteadiness of key; from the <a +name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>too great +realism of some chapters and passages—some of which I have +now spotted, others I dare say I shall never spot—which +disprepares the imagination for the cast of the remainder.</p> +<p>Any story can be made <i>true</i> in its own key; any story +can be made <i>false</i> by the choice of a wrong key of detail +or style: Otto is made to reel like a drunken—I was going +to say man, but let us substitute cipher—by the variations +of the key. Have you observed that the famous problem of +realism and idealism is one purely of detail? Have you seen +my ‘Note on Realism’ in Cassell’s <i>Magazine +of Art</i>; and ‘Elements of Style’ in the +<i>Contemporary</i>; and ‘Romance’ and ‘Humble +Apology’ in <i>Longman’s</i>? They are all in +your line of business; let me know what you have not seen and +I’ll send ’em.</p> +<p>I am glad I brought the old house up to you. It was a +pleasant old spot, and I remember you there, though still more +dearly in your own strange den upon a hill in San Francisco; and +one of the most San Francisco-y parts of San Francisco.</p> +<p>Good-bye, my dear fellow, and believe me your friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to J. A. Symonds</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i> [<i>Spring</i> 1886].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR SYMONDS</span>,—If we +have lost touch, it is (I think) only in a material sense; a +question of letters, not hearts. You will find a warm +welcome at Skerryvore from both the lightkeepers; and, indeed, we +never tell ourselves one of our financial fairy tales, but a run +to Davos is a prime feature. I am not changeable in +friendship; and I think I can promise you you have a pair of +trusty well-wishers and friends in Bournemouth: whether they +write or not is but a small thing; the flag may not be waved, but +it is there.</p> +<p><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>Jekyll +is a dreadful thing, I own; but the only thing I feel dreadful +about is that damned old business of the war in the +members. This time it came out; I hope it will stay in, in +future.</p> +<p>Raskolnikoff <a name="citation20"></a><a href="#footnote20" +class="citation">[20]</a> is easily the greatest book I have read +in ten years; I am glad you took to it. Many find it dull: +Henry James could not finish it: all I can say is, it nearly +finished me. It was like having an illness. James did +not care for it because the character of Raskolnikoff was not +objective; and at that I divined a great gulf between us, and, on +further reflection, the existence of a certain impotence in many +minds of to-day, which prevents them from living <i>in</i> a book +or a character, and keeps them standing afar off, spectators of a +puppet show. To such I suppose the book may seem empty in +the centre; to the others it is a room, a house of life, into +which they themselves enter, and are tortured and purified. +The Juge d’Instruction I thought a wonderful, weird, +touching, ingenious creation: the drunken father, and Sonia, and +the student friend, and the uncircumscribed, protaplasmic +humanity of Raskolnikoff, all upon a level that filled me with +wonder: the execution also, superb in places. Another has +been translated—<i>Humiliés et +Offensés</i>. It is even more incoherent than <i>Le +Crime et le Châtiment</i>, but breathes much of the same +lovely goodness, and has passages of power. Dostoieffsky is +a devil of a swell, to be sure. Have you heard that he +became a stout, imperialist conservative? It is interesting +to know. To something of that side, the balance leans with +me also in view of the incoherency and incapacity of all. +The old boyish idea of the march on Paradise being now out of +season, and all plans and ideas that I hear debated being built +on a superb indifference to the first principles of human +character, a helpless desire to acquiesce in anything of which I +know the worst assails me. Fundamental errors in human <a +name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>nature of two +sorts stand on the skyline of all this modern world of +aspirations. First, that it is happiness that men want; and +second, that happiness consists of anything but an internal +harmony. Men do not want, and I do not think they would +accept, happiness; what they live for is rivalry, effort, +success—the elements our friends wish to eliminate. +And, on the other hand, happiness is a question of +morality—or of immorality, there is no difference—and +conviction. Gordon was happy in Khartoum, in his worst +hours of danger and fatigue; Marat was happy, I suppose, in his +ugliest frenzy; Marcus Aurelius was happy in the detested camp; +Pepys was pretty happy, and I am pretty happy on the whole, +because we both somewhat crowingly accepted a <i>via media</i>, +both liked to attend to our affairs, and both had some success in +managing the same. It is quite an open question whether +Pepys and I ought to be happy; on the other hand, there is no +doubt that Marat had better be unhappy. He was right (if he +said it) that he was <i>la misère humaine</i>, cureless +misery—unless perhaps by the gallows. Death is a +great and gentle solvent; it has never had justice done it, no, +not by Whitman. As for those crockery chimney-piece +ornaments, the bourgeois (<i>quorum pars</i>), and their cowardly +dislike of dying and killing, it is merely one symptom of a +thousand how utterly they have got out of touch of life. +Their dislike of capital punishment and their treatment of their +domestic servants are for me the two flaunting emblems of their +hollowness.</p> +<p>God knows where I am driving to. But here comes my +lunch.</p> +<p>Which interruption, happily for you, seems to have stayed the +issue. I have now nothing to say, that had formerly such a +pressure of twaddle. Pray don’t fail to come this +summer. It will be a great disappointment, now it has been +spoken of, if you do.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span></p> +<h2><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span><span +class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h2> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>March</i> 1886.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—This is the +most enchanting picture. Now understand my state: I am +really an invalid, but of a mysterious order. I might be a +<i>malade imaginaire</i>, but for one too tangible symptom, my +tendency to bleed from the lungs. If we could go, +(1<i>st</i>) We must have money enough to travel with +<i>leisure and comfort</i>—especially the first. +(<i>2nd</i>) You must be prepared for a comrade who would +go to bed some part of every day and often stay silent +(3<i>rd</i>) You would have to play the part of a +thoughtful courier, sparing me fatigue, looking out that my bed +was warmed, etc. (4<i>th</i>) If you are very nervous, you +must recollect a bad hæmorrhage is always on the cards, +with its concomitants of anxiety and horror for those who are +beside me.</p> +<p>Do you blench? If so, let us say no more about it.</p> +<p>If you are still unafraid, and the money were forthcoming, I +believe the trip might do me good, and I feel sure that, working +together, we might produce a fine book. The Rhone is the +river of Angels. I adore it: have adored it since I was +twelve, and first saw it from the train.</p> +<p>Lastly, it would depend on how I keep from now on. I +have stood the winter hitherto with some credit, but the dreadful +weather still continues, and I cannot holloa till I am through +the wood.</p> +<p>Subject to these numerous and gloomy provisos, I embrace the +prospect with glorious feelings.</p> +<p><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>I write +this from bed, snow pouring without, and no circumstance of +pleasure except your letter. That, however, counts for +much. I am glad you liked the doggerel: I have already had +a liberal cheque, over which I licked my fingers with a sound +conscience. I had not meant to make money by these +stumbling feet, but if it comes, it is only too welcome in my +handsome but impecunious house.</p> +<p>Let me know soon what is to be expected—as far as it +does not hang by that inconstant quantity, my want of +health. Remember me to Madam with the best thanks and +wishes; and believe me your friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Fleeming Jenkin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>April</i> 1886.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN</span>,—I try +to tell myself it is good nature, but I know it is vanity that +makes me write.</p> +<p>I have drafted the first part of Chapter <span +class="GutSmall">VI</span>., Fleeming and his friends, his +influence on me, his views on religion and literature, his part +at the Savile; it should boil down to about ten pages, and I +really do think it admirably good. It has so much evoked +Fleeming for myself that I found my conscience stirred just as it +used to be after a serious talk with him: surely that means it is +good? I had to write and tell you, being alone.</p> +<p>I have excellent news of Fanny, who is much better for the +change. My father is still very yellow, and very old, and +very weak, but yesterday he seemed happier, and smiled, and +followed what was said; even laughed, I think. When he came +away, he said to me, ‘Take care of yourself, my +dearie,’ which had a strange sound of childish days, and +will not leave my mind.</p> +<p>You must get Litolf’s <i>Gavottes +Célèbres</i>: I have made another trover there: a +musette of Lully’s. The second part of it I have not +yet got the hang of; but the first—<a +name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>only a few +bars! The gavotte is beautiful and pretty hard, I think, +and very much of the period; and at the end of it, this musette +enters with the most really thrilling effect of simple +beauty. O—it’s first-rate. I am quite mad +over it. If you find other books containing Lully, Rameau, +Martini, please let me know; also you might tell me, you who know +Bach, where the easiest is to be found. I write all +morning, come down, and never leave the piano till about five; +write letters, dine, get down again about eight, and never leave +the piano till I go to bed. This is a fine +life.—Yours most sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>If you get the musette (Lully’s), please tell me if I am +right, and it was probably written for strings. Anyway, it +is as neat as—as neat as Bach—on the piano; or seems +so to my ignorance.</p> +<p>I play much of the Rigadoon but it is strange, it don’t +come off <i>quite</i> so well with me!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p24ab.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Music store" +title= +"Music store" + src="images/p24as.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p>There is the first part of the musette copied (from memory, so +I hope there’s nothing wrong). Is it not +angelic? But it ought, of course, to have the gavotte +before. The gavotte is in G, and ends on the keynote thus +(if I remember):—</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p24bb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Music store" +title= +"Music store" + src="images/p24bs.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p>staccato, I think. Then you sail into the musette.</p> +<p><i>N.B.</i>—Where I have put an ‘A,’ is that +a dominant <a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +25</span>eleventh, or what? or just a seventh on the D? and if +the latter, is that allowed? It sounds very funny. +Never mind all my questions; if I begin about music (which is my +leading ignorance and curiosity), I have always to babble +questions: all my friends know me now, and take no notice +whatever. The whole piece is marked allegro; but surely +could easily be played too fast? The dignity must not be +lost; the periwig feeling.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>March</i> 1886.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—The David +problem has to-day been decided. I am to leave the door +open for a sequel if the public take to it, and this will save me +from butchering a lot of good material to no purpose. Your +letter from Carlisle was pretty like yourself, sir, as I was +pleased to see; the hand of Jekyll, not the hand of Hyde. I +am for action quite unfit, and even a letter is beyond me; so +pray take these scraps at a vast deal more than their intrinsic +worth. I am in great spirits about David, Colvin agreeing +with Henley, Fanny, and myself in thinking it far the most human +of my labours hitherto. As to whether the long-eared +British public may take to it, all think it more than doubtful; I +wish they would, for I could do a second volume with ease and +pleasure, and Colvin thinks it sin and folly to throw away David +and Alan Breck upon so small a field as this one.—Ever your +affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span><span +class="smcap">to Mrs. Fleeming Jenkin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>], <i>April</i> 15 <i>or</i> 16 (<i>the hour +not being known</i>), 1886.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN</span>,—It is +I know not what hour of the night; but I cannot sleep, have lit +the gas, and here goes.</p> +<p>First, all your packet arrived: I have dipped into the +Schumann already with great pleasure. Surely, in what +concerns us there is a sweet little chirrup; the <i>Good +Words</i> arrived in the morning just when I needed it, and the +famous notes that I had lost were recovered also in the nick of +time.</p> +<p>And now I am going to bother you with my affairs: premising, +first, that this is <i>private</i>; second, that whatever I do +the <i>Life</i> shall be done first, and I am getting on with it +well; and third, that I do not quite know why I consult you, but +something tells me you will hear with fairness.</p> +<p>Here is my problem. The Curtin women are still miserable +prisoners; no one dare buy their farm of them, all the manhood of +England and the world stands aghast before a threat of +murder. (1) Now, my work can be done anywhere; hence I can +take up without loss a back-going Irish farm, and live on, though +not (as I had originally written) in it: First Reason. (2) +If I should be killed, there are a good many who would feel it: +writers are so much in the public eye, that a writer being +murdered would attract attention, throw a bull’s-eye light +upon this cowardly business: Second Reason. (3) I am not +unknown in the States, from which the funds come that pay for +these brutalities: to some faint extent, my <a +name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>death (if I +should be killed) would tell there: Third Reason. (4) +<i>Nobody else is taking up this obvious and crying duly</i>: +Fourth Reason. (5) I have a crazy health and may die at any +moment, my life is of no purchase in an insurance office, it is +the less account to husband it, and the business of husbanding a +life is dreary and demoralising: Fifth Reason.</p> +<p>I state these in no order, but as they occur to me. And +I shall do the like with the objections.</p> +<p>First Objection: It will do no good; you have seen Gordon die +and nobody minded; nobody will mind if you die. This is +plainly of the devil. Second Objection: You will not even +be murdered, the climate will miserably kill you, you will +strangle out in a rotten damp heat, in congestion, etc. +Well, what then? It changes nothing: the purpose is to +brave crime; let me brave it, for such time and to such an extent +as God allows. Third Objection: The Curtin women are +probably highly uninteresting females. I haven’t a +doubt of it. But the Government cannot, men will not, +protect them. If I am the only one to see this public duty, +it is to the public and the Right I should perform it—not +to Mesdames Curtin. Fourth Objection: I am married. +‘I have married a wife!’ I seem to have heard +it before. It smells ancient! what was the context? +Fifth Objection: My wife has had a mean life (1), loves me (2), +could not bear to lose me (3). (1) I admit: I am +sorry. (2) But what does she love me for? and (3) she must +lose me soon or late. And after all, because we run this +risk, it does not follow we should fail. Sixth Objection: +My wife wouldn’t like it. No, she +wouldn’t. Who would? But the Curtins +don’t like it. And all those who are to suffer if +this goes on, won’t like it. And if there is a great +wrong, somebody must suffer. Seventh Objection: I +won’t like it. No, I will not; I have thought it +through, and I will not. But what of that? And both +she and I may like it more than we suppose. We shall lose +friends, all comforts, <a name="page28"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 28</span>all society: so has everybody who has +ever done anything; but we shall have some excitement, and +that’s a fine thing; and we shall be trying to do the +right, and that’s not to be despised. Eighth +Objection: I am an author with my work before me. See +Second Reason. Ninth Objection: But am I not taken with the +hope of excitement? I was at first. I am not much +now. I see what a dreary, friendless, miserable, +God-forgotten business it will be. And anyway, is not +excitement the proper reward of doing anything both right and a +little dangerous? Tenth Objection: But am I not taken with +a notion of glory? I dare say I am. Yet I see quite +clearly how all points to nothing coming, to a quite inglorious +death by disease and from the lack of attendance; or even if I +should be knocked on the head, as these poor Irish promise, how +little any one will care. It will be a smile at a thousand +breakfast-tables. I am nearly forty now; I have not many +illusions. And if I had? I do not love this +health-tending, housekeeping life of mine. I have a taste +for danger, which is human, like the fear of it. Here is a +fair cause; a just cause; no knight ever set lance in rest for a +juster. Yet it needs not the strength I have not, only the +passive courage that I hope I could muster, and the watchfulness +that I am sure I could learn.</p> +<p>Here is a long midnight dissertation; with myself; with +you. Please let me hear. But I charge you this: if +you see in this idea of mine the finger of duty, do not dissuade +me. I am nearing forty, I begin to love my ease and my home +and my habits, I never knew how much till this arose; do not +falsely counsel me to put my head under the bed-clothes. +And I will say this to you: my wife, who hates the idea, does not +refuse. ‘It is nonsense,’ says she, ‘but +if you go, I will go.’ Poor girl, and her home and +her garden that she was so proud of! I feel her garden most +of all, because it is a pleasure (I suppose) that I do not feel +myself to share.</p> +<p class="gutindent"><a name="page29"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 29</span>1. Here is a great wrong.</p> +<p class="gutindent">2. ,, growing wrong.</p> +<p class="gutindent">3. ,, wrong founded on crime.</p> +<p class="gutindent">4. ,, crime that the Government cannot +prevent.</p> +<p class="gutindent">5. ,, crime that it occurs to no man +to defy.</p> +<p class="gutindent">6. But it has occurred to me.</p> +<p class="gutindent">7. Being a known person, some will +notice my defiance.</p> +<p class="gutindent">8. Being a writer, I can <i>make</i> +people notice it.</p> +<p class="gutindent">9. And, I think, <i>make</i> people +imitate me.</p> +<p class="gutindent">10. Which would destroy in time this +whole scaffolding of oppression.</p> +<p class="gutindent">11. And if I fail, however +ignominiously, that is not my concern. It is, with an odd +mixture of reverence and humorous remembrances of Dickens, be it +said—it is A-nother’s.</p> +<p>And here, at I cannot think what hour of the morning, I shall +dry up, and remain,—Yours, really in want of a little +help,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p>Sleepless at midnight’s</p> +</td> +<td><p>dewy hour.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> + +<td><p> ,, +,,</p> +</td> +<td><p>witching ,,</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> + +<td><p> ,, +,,</p> +</td> +<td><p>maudlin ,,</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> + +<td><p> ,, +,,</p> +</td> +<td><p>etc.</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p><i>Next morning</i>.—Eleventh Objection: I have a father +and mother. And who has not? Macduff’s was a +rare case; if we must wait for a Macduff. Besides, my +father will not perhaps be long here. Twelfth Objection: +The cause of England in Ireland is not worth supporting. +<i>À qui le dites-vous</i>? And I am not supporting +that. Home Rule, if you like. Cause of decency, the +idea that populations should not be taught to gain public ends by +private crime, the idea that for all men to bow before a threat +of crime is to loosen and degrade beyond redemption the whole +fabric of man’s decency.</p> +<h3><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span><span +class="smcap">to Mrs. Fleeming Jenkin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>April</i> 1886.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN</span>,—The +Book—It is all drafted: I hope soon to send you for +comments Chapters <span class="GutSmall">III</span>., <span +class="GutSmall">IV</span>., and <span +class="GutSmall">V</span>. Chapter <span +class="GutSmall">VII</span>. is roughly but satisfactorily +drafted: a very little work should put that to rights. But +Chapter <span class="GutSmall">VI</span>. is no joke; it is a +<i>mare magnum</i>: I swim and drown and come up again; and it is +all broken ends and mystification: moreover, I perceive I am in +want of more matter. I must have, first of all, a little +letter from Mr. Ewing about the phonograph work: <i>If</i> you +think he would understand it is quite a matter of chance whether +I use a word or a fact out of it. If you think he would +not: I will go without. Also, could I have a look at +Ewing’s <i>précis</i>? And lastly, I perceive +I must interview you again about a few points; they are very few, +and might come to little; and I propose to go on getting things +as well together as I can in the meanwhile, and rather have a +final time when all is ready and only to be criticised. I +do still think it will be good. I wonder if Trélat +would let me cut? But no, I think I wouldn’t after +all; ’tis so quaint and pretty and clever and simple and +French, and gives such a good sight of Fleeming: the plum of the +book, I think.</p> +<p>You misunderstood me in one point: I always hoped to found +such a society; that was the outside of my dream, and would mean +entire success. <i>But</i>—I cannot play Peter the +Hermit. In these days of the Fleet Street journalist, I +cannot send out better men than myself, with <a +name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>wives or +mothers just as good as mine, and sisters (I may at least say) +better, to a danger and a long-drawn dreariness that I do not +share. My wife says it’s cowardice; what brave men +are the leader-writers! Call it cowardice; it is +mine. Mind you, I may end by trying to do it by the pen +only: I shall not love myself if I do; and is it ever a good +thing to do a thing for which you despise yourself?—even in +the doing? And if the thing you do is to call upon others +to do the thing you neglect? I have never dared to say what +I feel about men’s lives, because my own was in the wrong: +shall I dare to send them to death? The physician must heal +himself; he must honestly <i>try</i> the path he recommends: if +he does not even try, should he not be silent?</p> +<p>I thank you very heartily for your letter, and for the +seriousness you brought to it. You know, I think when a +serious thing is your own, you keep a saner man by laughing at it +and yourself as you go. So I do not write possibly with all +the really somewhat sickened gravity I feel. And indeed, +what with the book, and this business to which I referred, and +Ireland, I am scarcely in an enviable state. Well, I ought +to be glad, after ten years of the worst training on +earth—valetudinarianism—that I can still be troubled +by a duty. You shall hear more in time; so far, I am at +least decided: I will go and see Balfour when I get to +London.</p> +<p>We have all had a great pleasure: a Mrs. Rawlinson came and +brought with her a nineteen-year-old daughter, simple, human, as +beautiful as—herself; I never admired a girl before, you +know it was my weakness: we are all three dead in love with +her. How nice to be able to do so much good to harassed +people by—yourself! Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span><span +class="smcap">to Miss Rawlinson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>April</i> 1886.]</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Of</span> the many flowers +you brought me,<br /> + Only some were meant to stay,<br /> +And the flower I thought the sweetest<br /> + Was the flower that went away.</p> +<p class="poetry">Of the many flowers you brought me,<br /> + All were fair and fresh and gay,<br /> +But the flower I thought the sweetest<br /> + Was the blossom of the May.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Monroe</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>May</i> 25<i>th</i>, 1886.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MISS MONROE</span>,—(I hope +I have this rightly) I must lose no time in thanking you for a +letter singularly pleasant to receive. It may interest you +to know that I read to the signature without suspecting my +correspondent was a woman; though in one point (a reference to +the Countess) I might have found a hint of the truth. You +are not pleased with Otto; since I judge you do not like +weakness; and no more do I. And yet I have more than +tolerance for Otto, whose faults are the faults of weakness, but +never of ignoble weakness, and who seeks before all to be both +kind and just. Seeks, not succeeds. But what is +man? So much of cynicism to recognise that nobody does +right is the best equipment for those who do not wish to be +cynics in good earnest. Think better of Otto, if my plea +can influence you; and this I mean for your own sake—not +his, poor fellow, as he will never learn your opinion; but for +yours, because, as <a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +33</span>men go in this world (and women too), you will not go +far wrong if you light upon so fine a fellow; and to light upon +one and not perceive his merits is a calamity. In the +flesh, of course, I mean; in the book the fault, of course, is +with my stumbling pen. Seraphina made a mistake about her +Otto; it begins to swim before me dimly that you may have some +traits of Seraphina?</p> +<p>With true ingratitude you see me pitch upon your exception; +but it is easier to defend oneself gracefully than to acknowledge +praise. I am truly glad that you should like my books; for +I think I see from what you write that you are a reader worth +convincing. Your name, if I have properly deciphered it, +suggests that you may be also something of my countrywoman; for +it is hard to see where Monroe came from, if not from +Scotland. I seem to have here a double claim on your good +nature: being myself pure Scotch and having appreciated your +letter, make up two undeniable merits which, perhaps, if it +should be quite without trouble, you might reward with your +photograph.—Yours truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Monroe</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>June</i> 1886.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MISS MONROE</span>,—I am +ill in bed and stupid, incoherently stupid; yet I have to answer +your letter, and if the answer is incomprehensible you must +forgive me. You say my letter caused you pleasure; I am +sure, as it fell out, not near so much as yours has brought to +me. The interest taken in an author is fragile: his next +book, or your next year of culture, might see the interest +frosted or outgrown; and himself, in spite of all, you might +probably find the most distasteful person upon earth. My +case is different. I have bad health, am often condemned <a +name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>to silence +for days together—was so once for six weeks, so that my +voice was awful to hear when I first used it, like the whisper of +a shadow—have outlived all my chief pleasures, which were +active and adventurous, and ran in the open air: and being a +person who prefers life to art, and who knows it is a far finer +thing to be in love, or to risk a danger, than to paint the +finest picture or write the noblest book, I begin to regard what +remains to me of my life as very shadowy. From a variety of +reasons, I am ashamed to confess I was much in this humour when +your letter came. I had a good many troubles; was +regretting a high average of sins; had been recently reminded +that I had outlived some friends, and wondering if I had not +outlived some friendships; and had just, while boasting of better +health, been struck down again by my haunting enemy, an enemy who +was exciting at first, but has now, by the iteration of his +strokes, become merely annoying and inexpressibly irksome. +Can you fancy that to a person drawing towards the elderly this +sort of conjunction of circumstances brings a rather aching sense +of the past and the future? Well, it was just then that +your letter and your photograph were brought to me in bed; and +there came to me at once the most agreeable sense of +triumph. My books were still young; my words had their good +health and could go about the world and make themselves welcome; +and even (in a shadowy and distant sense) make something in the +nature of friends for the sheer hulk that stays at home and bites +his pen over the manuscripts. It amused me very much to +remember that I had been in Chicago, not so many years ago, in my +proper person; where I had failed to awaken much remark, except +from the ticket collector; and to think how much more gallant and +persuasive were the fellows that I now send instead of me, and +how these are welcome in that quarter to the sitter of Herr +Platz, while their author was not very welcome even in the +villainous restaurant where he tried to eat a meal and rather +failed.</p> +<p><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>And +this leads me directly to a confession. The photograph +which shall accompany this is not chosen as the most like, but +the best-looking. Put yourself in my place, and you will +call this pardonable. Even as it is, even putting forth a +flattered presentment, I am a little pained; and very glad it is +a photograph and not myself that has to go; for in this case, if +it please you, you can tell yourself it is my image—and if +it displeased you, you can lay the blame on the photographer; but +in that, there were no help, and the poor author might belie his +labours.</p> +<p><i>Kidnapped</i> should soon appear; I am afraid you may not +like it, as it is very unlike <i>Prince Otto</i> in every way; +but I am myself a great admirer of the two chief characters, Alan +and David. <i>Virginibus Puerisque</i> has never been +issued in the States. I do not think it is a book that has +much charm for publishers in any land; but I am to bring out a +new edition in England shortly, a copy of which I must try to +remember to send you. I say try to remember, because I have +some superficial acquaintance with myself: and I have determined, +after a galling discipline, to promise nothing more until the day +of my death: at least, in this way, I shall no more break my +word, and I must now try being churlish instead of being +false.</p> +<p>I do not believe you to be the least like Seraphina. +Your photograph has no trace of her, which somewhat relieves me, +as I am a good deal afraid of Seraphinas—they do not always +go into the woods and see the sunrise, and some are so +well-mailed that even that experience would leave them unaffected +and unsoftened. The ‘hair and eyes of several +complexions’ was a trait taken from myself; and I do not +bind myself to the opinions of Sir John. In this case, +perhaps—but no, if the peculiarity is shared by two such +pleasant persons as you and I (as you and me—the +grammatical nut is hard), it must be a very good thing indeed, +and Sir John must be an ass.</p> +<p><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>The +<i>Book Reader</i> notice was a strange jumble of fact and +fancy. I wish you could have seen my father’s old +assistant and present partner when he heard my father described +as an ‘inspector of lighthouses,’ for we are all very +proud of the family achievements, and the name of my house here +in Bournemouth is stolen from one of the sea-towers of the +Hebrides which are our pyramids and monuments. I was never +at Cambridge, again; but neglected a considerable succession of +classes at Edinburgh. But to correct that friendly +blunderer were to write an autobiography.—And so now, with +many thanks, believe me yours sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to R. A. M. Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>July</i> 1886.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">SIR</span>,—Your foolish letter +was unduly received. There may be hidden fifths, and if +there are, it shows how dam spontaneous the thing was. I +could tinker and tic-tac-toe on a piece of paper, but scorned the +act with a Threnody, which was poured forth like blood and water +on the groaning organ. If your heart (which was what I +addressed) remained unmoved, let us refer to the affair no more: +crystallised emotion, the statement and the reconciliation of the +sorrows of the race and the individual, is obviously no more to +you than supping sawdust. Well, well. If ever I write +another Threnody! My next op. will probably be a Passepied +and fugue in G (or D).</p> +<p><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>The +mind is in my case shrunk to the size and sp. gr. of an aged +Spanish filbert. O, I am so jolly silly. I now pickle +with some freedom (1) the refrain of <i>Martini’s +Moutons</i>; (2) <i>Sul margine d’un rio</i>, arranged for +the infant school by the Aged Statesman; (3) the first phrase of +Bach’s musette (Sweet Englishwoman, No. 3), <a +name="citation37"></a><a href="#footnote37" +class="citation">[37]</a> the rest of the musette being one +prolonged cropper, which I take daily for the benefit of my +health. All my other works (of which there are many) are +either arranged (by R. L. Stevenson) for the manly and melodious +forefinger, or else prolonged and melancholy croppers. . . . I +find one can get a notion of music very nicely. I have been +pickling deeply in the Magic Flute; and have arranged <i>La dove +prende</i>, almost to the end, for two melodious +forefingers. I am next going to score the really nobler +<i>Colomba o tortorella</i> for the same instruments.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">This day is published<br /> +The works of Ludwig van Beethoven<br /> +arranged<br /> +and wiederdurchgearbeiteted<br /> +for two melodious forefingers<br /> +by,<br /> +Sir,—Your obedient servant,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Pimperly +Stipple</span>.</p> +<p>That’s a good idea? There’s a person called +Lenz who actually does it—beware his den; I lost +eighteenpennies on him, and found the bleeding corpses of pieces +of music divorced from their keys, despoiled of their graces, and +even changed in time; I do not wish to regard music (nor to be +regarded) through that bony Lenz. You say you are ‘a +spumfed idiot’; but how about Lenz? And how about me, +sir, me?</p> +<p>I yesterday sent Lloyd by parcel post, at great expense, an +empty matchbox and empty cigarette-paper book, a bell from a +cat’s collar, an iron kitchen spoon, and a piece <a +name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>of coal more +than half the superficies of this sheet of paper. They are +now (appropriately enough) speeding towards the Silly Isles; I +hope he will find them useful. By that, and my telegram +with prepaid answer to yourself, you may judge of my spiritual +state. The finances have much brightened; and if +<i>Kidnapped</i> keeps on as it has begun, I may be +solvent.—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Threnodiæ +Avctor</span><br /> +(The authour of ane Threnodie).</p> +<p>Op. 2: Scherzo (in G Major) expressive of the Sense of favours +to come.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to R. A. M. Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i> +[<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>July</i> 1886].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR BOB</span>,—Herewith another +shy; more melancholy than before, but I think not so abjectly +idiotic. The musical terms seem to be as good as in +Beethoven, and that, after all, is the great affair. Bar +the dam bareness of the base, it looks like a piece of real music +from a distance. I am proud to say it was not made one hand +at a time; the base was of synchronous birth with the treble; +they are of the same age, sir, and may God have mercy on their +souls!—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">The +Maestro</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. and Mrs. Thomas +Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>July</i> 7<i>th</i>, 1886.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR PEOPLE</span>,—It is +probably my fault, and not yours, that I did not +understand. I think it would be <a name="page39"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 39</span>well worth trying the winter in +Bournemouth; but I would only take the house by the +month—this after mature discussion. My leakage still +pursues its course; if I were only well, I have a notion to go +north and get in (if I could) at the inn at Kirkmichael, which +has always smiled upon me much. If I did well there, we +might then meet and do what should most smile at the time.</p> +<p>Meanwhile, of course, I must not move, and am in a rancid box +here, feeling the heat a great deal, and pretty tired of +things. Alexander did a good thing of me at last; it looks +like a mixture of an aztec idol, a lion, an Indian Rajah, and a +woman; and certainly represents a mighty comic figure. F. +and Lloyd both think it is the best thing that has been done of +me up to now.</p> +<p>You should hear Lloyd on the penny whistle, and me on the +piano! Dear powers, what a concerto! I now live +entirely for the piano, he for the whistle; the neighbours, in a +radius of a furlong and a half, are packing up in quest of +brighter climes.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—Please say if you can afford to let us have +money for this trip, and if so, how much. I can see the +year through without help, I believe, and supposing my health to +keep up; but can scarce make this change on my own metal.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>July</i> 1886].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR CHARLES</span>,—Doubtless, +if all goes well, towards the 1st of August we shall be begging +at your door. Thanks for a sight of the papers, which I +return (you see) at once, fearing further responsibility.</p> +<p>Glad you like Dauvit; but eh, man, yon’s terrible +strange conduc’ o’ thon man Rankeillor. +Ca’ him a legal <a name="page40"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 40</span>adviser! It would make a bonny +law-shuit, the Shaws case; and yon paper they signed, I’m +thinking, wouldnae be muckle thought o’ by Puggy +Deas.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>], <i>July</i> 28, 1886.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FATHER</span>,—We have +decided not to come to Scotland, but just to do as Dobell wished, +and take an outing. I believe this is wiser in all ways; +but I own it is a disappointment. I am weary of England; +like Alan, ‘I weary for the heather,’ if not for the +deer. Lloyd has gone to Scilly with Katharine and C., where +and with whom he should have a good time. David seems +really to be going to succeed, which is a pleasant prospect on +all sides. I am, I believe, floated financially; a book +that sells will be a pleasant novelty. I enclose another +review; mighty complimentary, and calculated to sell the book +too.</p> +<p>Coolin’s tombstone has been got out, honest man! and it +is to be polished, for it has got scratched, and have a touch of +gilding in the letters, and be sunk in the front of the +house. Worthy man, he, too, will maybe weary for the +heather, and the bents of Gullane, where (as I dare say you +remember) he gaed clean gyte, and jumped on to his crown from a +gig, in hot and hopeless chase of many thousand rabbits. I +can still hear the little cries of the honest fellow as he +disappeared; and my mother will correct me, but I believe it was +two days before he turned up again at North Berwick: to judge by +his belly, he had caught not one out of these thousands, but he +had had some exercise.</p> +<p>I keep well.—Ever your affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span><span +class="smcap">to Mrs. Thomas Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>British Museum</i> [<i>August</i> +10<i>th</i>, 1886].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MOTHER</span>,—We are +having a capital holiday, and I am much better, and enjoying +myself to the nines. Richmond is painting my +portrait. To-day I lunch with him, and meet Burne-Jones; +to-night Browning dines with us. That sounds rather lofty +work, does it not? His path was paved with +celebrities. To-morrow we leave for Paris, and next week, I +suppose, or the week after, come home. Address here, as we +may not reach Paris. I am really very well.—Ever your +affectionate son,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to T. Watts-Dunton</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i> [<i>September</i> 1886].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. WATTS</span>, The sight of the +last <i>Athenæum</i> reminds me of you, and of my debt, now +too long due. I wish to thank you for your notice of +<i>Kidnapped</i>; and that not because it was kind, though for +that also I valued it, but in the same sense as I have thanked +you before now for a hundred articles on a hundred different +writers. A critic like you is one who fights the good +fight, contending with stupidity, and I would fain hope not all +in vain; in my own case, for instance, surely not in vain.</p> +<p>What you say of the two parts in <i>Kidnapped</i> was felt by +no one more painfully than by myself. I began it partly as +a lark, partly as a pot-boiler; and suddenly it <a +name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>moved, David +and Alan stepped out from the canvas, and I found I was in +another world. But there was the cursed beginning, and a +cursed end must be appended; and our old friend Byles the butcher +was plainly audible tapping at the back door. So it had to +go into the world, one part (as it does seem to me) alive, one +part merely galvanised: no work, only an essay. For a man +of tentative method, and weak health, and a scarcity of private +means, and not too much of that frugality which is the +artist’s proper virtue, the days of sinecures and patrons +look very golden: the days of professional literature very +hard. Yet I do not so far deceive myself as to think I +should change my character by changing my epoch; the sum of +virtue in our books is in a relation of equality to the sum of +virtues in ourselves; and my <i>Kidnapped</i> was doomed, while +still in the womb and while I was yet in the cradle, to be the +thing it is.</p> +<p>And now to the more genial business of defence. You +attack my fight on board the <i>Covenant</i>: I think it +literal. David and Alan had every advantage on their +side—position, arms, training, a good conscience; a handful +of merchant sailors, not well led in the first attack, not led at +all in the second, could only by an accident have taken the +round-house by attack; and since the defenders had firearms and +food, it is even doubtful if they could have been starved +out. The only doubtful point with me is whether the seamen +would have ever ventured on the second onslaught; I half believe +they would not; still the illusion of numbers and the authority +of Hoseason would perhaps stretch far enough to justify the +extremity.—I am, dear Mr. Watts, your very sincere +admirer,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span><span +class="smcap">to Frederick Locker-Lampson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, <i>September</i> +4, 1886.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Not</span> roses to the +rose, I trow,<br /> + The thistle sends, nor to the bee<br /> +Do wasps bring honey. Wherefore now<br /> + Should Locker ask a verse from me?</p> +<p class="poetry">Martial, perchance,—but he is dead,<br /> + And Herrick now must rhyme no more;<br /> +Still burning with the muse, they tread<br /> + (And arm in arm) the shadowy shore.</p> +<p class="poetry">They, if they lived, with dainty hand,<br /> + To music as of mountain brooks,<br /> +Might bring you worthy words to stand<br /> + Unshamed, dear Locker, in your books.</p> +<p class="poetry">But tho’ these fathers of your race<br /> + Be gone before, yourself a sire,<br /> +To-day you see before your face<br /> + Your stalwart youngsters touch the lyre—</p> +<p class="poetry">On these—on Lang, or +Dobson—call,<br /> + Long leaders of the songful feast.<br /> +They lend a verse your laughing fall—<br /> + A verse they owe you at the least.</p> +<h3><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span><span +class="smcap">to Frederick Locker-Lampson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>], +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>September</i> 1886.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR LOCKER</span>,—You take my +verses too kindly, but you will admit, for such a bluebottle of a +versifier to enter the house of Gertrude, where her necklace +hangs, was not a little brave. Your kind invitation, I +fear, must remain unaccented; and yet—if I am very +well—perhaps next spring—(for I mean to be very +well)—my wife might. . . . But all that is in the +clouds with my better health. And now look here: you are a +rich man and know many people, therefore perhaps some of the +Governors of Christ’s Hospital. If you do, I know a +most deserving case, in which I would (if I could) do +anything. To approach you, in this way, is not decent; and +you may therefore judge by my doing it, how near this matter lies +to my heart. I enclose you a list of the Governors, which I +beg you to return, whether or not you shall be able to do +anything to help me.</p> +<p>The boy’s name is —; he and his mother are very +poor. It may interest you in her cause if I tell you this: +that when I was dangerously ill at Hyères, this brave +lady, who had then a sick husband of her own (since dead) and a +house to keep and a family of four to cook for, all with her own +hands, for they could afford no servant, yet took watch-about +with my wife, and contributed not only to my comfort, but to my +recovery in a degree that I am not able to limit. You can +conceive how much I suffer from my impotence to help her, and +indeed I have already shown myself a thankless friend. Let +not my cry go up before you in vain!—Yours in hope,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span><span +class="smcap">to Frederick Locker-Lampson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>September</i> 1886.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOCKER</span>,—That I +should call myself a man of letters, and land myself in such +unfathomable ambiguities! No, my dear Locker, I did not +want a cheque; and in my ignorance of business, which is greater +even than my ignorance of literature, I have taken the liberty of +drawing a pen through the document and returning it; should this +be against the laws of God or man, forgive me. All that I +meant by my excessively disgusting reference to your material +well-being was the vague notion that a man who is well off was +sure to know a Governor of Christ’s Hospital; though how I +quite arrived at this conclusion I do not see. A man with a +cold in the head does not necessarily know a ratcatcher; and the +connection is equally close—as it now appears to my +awakened and somewhat humbled spirit. For all that, let me +thank you in the warmest manner for your friendly readiness to +contribute. You say you have hopes of becoming a miser: I +wish I had; but indeed I believe you deceive yourself, and are as +far from it as ever. I wish I had any excuse to keep your +cheque, for it is much more elegant to receive than to return; +but I have my way of making it up to you, and I do sincerely beg +you to write to the two Governors. This extraordinary +outpouring of correspondence would (if you knew my habits) +convince you of my great eagerness in this matter. I would +promise gratitude; but I have made a promise to myself to make no +more promises to anybody else, having broken such a host already, +and come near breaking my heart in consequence; and as for +gratitude, I am by nature a thankless dog, and was spoiled from a +child up. But if you can help this lady in the matter of +the Hospital, you will have <a name="page46"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 46</span>helped the worthy. Let me +continue to hope that I shall make out my visit in the spring, +and believe me, yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>It may amuse you to know that a very long while ago, I broke +my heart to try to imitate your verses, and failed +hopelessly. I saw some of the evidences the other day among +my papers, and blushed to the heels.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>I give up finding out your name in the meantime, and keep to +that by which you will be known—Frederick Locker.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">To Frederick Locker-Lampson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>], 24<i>th</i> <i>September</i> 1886.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOCKER</span>,—You are +simply an angel of light, and your two letters have gone to the +post; I trust they will reach the hearts of the +recipients—at least, that could not be more handsomely +expressed. About the cheque: well now, I am going to keep +it; but I assure you Mrs. — has never asked me for money, +and I would not dare to offer any till she did. For all +that I shall stick to the cheque now, and act to that amount as +your almoner. In this way I reward myself for the ambiguity +of my epistolary style.</p> +<p>I suppose, if you please, you may say your verses are thin +(would you so describe an arrow, by the way, and one that struck +the gold? It scarce strikes me as exhaustively +descriptive), and, thin or not, they are (and I have found them) +inimitably elegant. I thank you again very sincerely for +the generous trouble you have taken in this matter which was so +near my heart, and you may be very certain it will be the fault +of my health and not my inclination, if I do not see you before +very long; for all that has past has made me in more than the +official sense sincerely yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span><span +class="smcap">To Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, <i>Dec.</i> 14, +1886.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—This is +first-rate of you, the Lord love you for it! I am truly +much obliged. He—my father—is very changeable; +at times, he seems only a slow quiet edition of himself; again, +he will be very heavy and blank; but never so violent as last +spring; and therefore, to my mind, better on the whole.</p> +<p>Fanny is pretty peepy; I am splendid. I have been +writing much verse—quite the bard, in fact; and also a dam +tale to order, which will be what it will be: I don’t love +it, but some of it is passable in its mouldy way, <i>The +Misadventures of John Nicholson</i>. All my bardly +exercises are in Scotch; I have struck my somewhat ponderous +guitar in that tongue to no small extent: with what success, I +know not, but I think it’s better than my English verse; +more marrow and fatness, and more ruggedness.</p> +<p>How goes <i>Keats</i>? Pray remark, if he (Keats) hung +back from Shelley, it was not to be wondered at, <i>when so many +of his friends were Shelley’s pensioners</i>. I +forget if you have made this point; it has been borne in upon me +reading Dowden and the <i>Shelley Papers</i>; and it will do no +harm if you have made it. I finished a poem to-day, and +writ 3000 words of a story, <i>tant bien que mal</i>; and have a +right to be sleepy, and (what is far nobler and rarer) am +so.—My dear Colvin, ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">The Real +Mackay</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span><span +class="smcap">To Frederick Locker-Lampson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>February</i> 5<i>th</i>, 1887.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOCKER</span>,—Here I am +in my bed as usual, and it is indeed a long while since I went +out to dinner. You do not know what a crazy fellow this +is. My winter has not so far been luckily passed, and all +hope of paying visits at Easter has vanished for twelve calendar +months. But because I am a beastly and indurated invalid, I +am not dead to human feelings; and I neither have forgotten you +nor will forget you. Some day the wind may round to the +right quarter and we may meet; till then I am still truly +yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>February</i> 1887.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR JAMES</span>,—My health +has played me it in once more in the absurdest fashion, and the +creature who now addresses you is but a stringy and white-faced +<i>bouilli</i> out of the pot of fever, with the devil to pay in +every corner of his economy. I suppose (to judge by your +letter) I need not send you these sheets, which came during my +collapse by the rush. I am on the start with three volumes, +that one of tales, <a name="citation48a"></a><a +href="#footnote48a" class="citation">[48a]</a> a second one of +essays, <a name="citation48b"></a><a href="#footnote48b" +class="citation">[48b]</a> and one of—ahem—verse. <a +name="citation48c"></a><a href="#footnote48c" +class="citation">[48c]</a> This is a great order, is it +not? After that I shall have empty lockers. All new +work stands still; I was getting on well with Jenkin when this +blessed malady unhorsed me, and sent me back to the +dung-collecting trade of the republisher. I shall re-issue +<a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span><i>Virg. +Puer.</i> as Vol. <span class="GutSmall">I</span>. of +<i>Essays</i>, and the new vol. as Vol. <span +class="GutSmall">II</span>. of ditto; to be sold, however, +separately. This is but a dry maundering; however, I am +quite unfit—‘I am for action quite unfit Either of +exercise or wit.’ My father is in a variable state; +many sorrows and perplexities environ the house of Stevenson; my +mother shoots north at this hour on business of a distinctly +rancid character; my father (under my wife’s tutorage) +proceeds to-morrow to Salisbury; I remain here in my bed and +whistle; in no quarter of heaven is anything encouraging +apparent, except that the good Colvin comes to the hotel here on +a visit. This dreary view of life is somewhat blackened by +the fact that my head aches, which I always regard as a liberty +on the part of the powers that be. This is also my first +letter since my recovery. God speed your laudatory pen!</p> +<p>My wife joins in all warm messages.—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">(<i>April</i> 1887.)</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—The fares to +London may be found in any continental Bradshaw or sich; from +London to Bournemouth impoverished parties who can stoop to the +third class get their ticket for the matter of 10s., or, as my +wife loves to phrase it, ‘a half a pound.’ You +will also be involved in a 3s. fare to get to Skerryvore; but +this, I dare say, friends could help you in on your arrival; so +that you may reserve your energies for the two +tickets—costing the matter of a pound—and the usual +gratuities to porters. This does not seem to me much: +considering the intellectual pleasures that await you here, I +call it dirt cheap. I <i>believe</i> the third class from +Paris to London <a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>(<i>viâ</i> Dover) is <i>about</i> forty francs, +but I cannot swear. Suppose it to be fifty.</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p>50 × 2=100</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">100</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The expense of spirit or spontaneous lapse of coin on the +journey, at 5 frcs. a head, 5 × 2=10</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">10</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Victuals on ditto, at 5 frcs. a head, 5 × 2 = 10</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">10</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Gratuity to stewardess, in case of severe prostration, at +3 francs</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">3</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>One night in London, on a modest footing, say 20</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">20</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Two tickets to Bournemouth at 12.50, 12.50 × +2=25</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">25</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Porters and general devilment, say 5</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">5</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Cabs in London, say 2 shillings, and in Bournemouth, 3 +shillings=5 shillings, 6 frcs. 25</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">6.25</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>frcs.</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">179.25</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Or, the same in pounds,</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">£7, 3s. 6½d.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Or, the same in dollars,</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">$35.45</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p>if there be any arithmetical virtue in me. I have left +out dinner in London in case you want to blow out, which would +come extry, and with the aid of <i>vangs fangs</i> might easily +double the whole amount—above all if you have a few friends +to meet you.</p> +<p>In making this valuable project, or budget, I discovered for +the first time a reason (frequently overlooked) for the singular +costliness of travelling with your wife. Anybody would +count the tickets double; but how few would have +remembered—or indeed has any one ever remembered?—to +count the spontaneous lapse of coin double also? Yet there +are two of you, each must do his daily leakage, and it must be +done out of your travelling fund. You will tell me, +perhaps, that you carry the coin yourself: my dear sir, do you +think you can fool your Maker? Your wife has to lose her +quota; and by God she will—if you kept the <a +name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>coin in a +belt. One thing I have omitted: you will lose a certain +amount on the exchange, but this even I cannot foresee, as it is +one of the few things that vary with the way a man has.—I +am, dear sir, yours financially,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Samuel +Budgett</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Alison Cunningham</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Skerryvore</i>, <i>April</i> +16<i>th</i>, 1887.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAREST CUMMY</span>,—As +usual, I have been a dreary bad fellow and not written for ages; +but you must just try to forgive me, to believe (what is the +truth) that the number of my letters is no measure of the number +of times I think of you, and to remember how much writing I have +to do. The weather is bright, but still cold; and my +father, I’m afraid, feels it sharply. He has +had—still has, rather—a most obstinate jaundice, +which has reduced him cruelly in strength, and really upset him +altogether. I hope, or think, he is perhaps a little +better; but he suffers much, cannot sleep at night, and gives +John and my mother a severe life of it to wait upon him. My +wife is, I think, a little better, but no great shakes. I +keep mightily respectable myself.</p> +<p>Coolin’s Tombstone is now built into the front wall of +Skerryvore, and poor Bogie’s (with a Latin inscription +also) is set just above it. Poor, unhappy wee man, he died, +as you must have heard, in fight, which was what he would have +chosen; for military glory was more in his line than the domestic +virtues. I believe this is about all my news, except that, +as I write, there is a blackbird singing in our garden trees, as +it were at Swanston. I would like fine to go up the +burnside a bit, and sit by the pool and be young again—or +no, be what I am still, only there instead of here, for just a +little. Did you see that I had written about John +Todd? In this month’s <i>Longman</i> it was; if you +have not seen it, I will try and send it you. Some day +climb as high as <a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +52</span>Halkerside for me (I am never likely to do it for +myself), and sprinkle some of the well water on the turf. I +am afraid it is a pagan rite, but quite harmless, and <i>ye can +sain it wi’ a bit prayer</i>. Tell the Peewies that I +mind their forbears well. My heart is sometimes heavy, and +sometimes glad to mind it all. But for what we have +received, the Lord make us truly thankful. Don’t +forget to sprinkle the water, and do it in my name; I feel a +childish eagerness in this.</p> +<p>Remember me most kindly to James, and with all sorts of love +to yourself, believe me, your laddie,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—I suppose Mrs. Todd ought to see the paper +about her man; judge of that, and if you think she would not +dislike it, buy her one from me, and let me know. The +article is called ‘Pastoral,’ in <i>Longman’s +Magazine</i> for April. I will send you the money; I would +to-day, but it’s the Sabbie day, and I cannae.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>Remembrances from all here.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Edinburgh</i>, <i>June</i> +1887.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR S. C.</span>,—At last I +can write a word to you. Your little note in the <i>P. M. +G.</i> was charming. I have written four pages in the +<i>Contemporary</i>, which Bunting found room for: they are not +very good, but I shall do more for his memory in time.</p> +<p>About the death, I have long hesitated, I was long before I +could tell my mind; and now I know it, and can but say that I am +glad. If we could have had my father, <a +name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>that would +have been a different thing. But to keep that +changeling—suffering changeling—any longer, could +better none and nothing. Now he rests; it is more +significant, it is more like himself. He will begin to +return to us in the course of time, as he was and as we loved +him.</p> +<p>My favourite words in literature, my favourite +scene—‘O let him pass,’ Kent and Lear—was +played for me here in the first moment of my return. I +believe Shakespeare saw it with his own father. I had no +words; but it was shocking to see. He died on his feet, you +know; was on his feet the last day, knowing nobody—still he +would be up. This was his constant wish; also that he might +smoke a pipe on his last day. The funeral would have +pleased him; it was the largest private funeral in man’s +memory here.</p> +<p>We have no plans, and it is possible we may go home without +going through town. I do not know; I have no views yet +whatever; nor can have any at this stage of my cold and my +business.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h2><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>IX<br +/> +THE UNITED STATES AGAIN:<br /> +WINTER IN THE ADIRONDACKS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AUGUST 1887-OCTOBER 1888</span></h2> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>], <i>August</i> 1887.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR LAD</span>,—I write to +inform you that Mr. Stevenson’s well-known work, +<i>Virginibus Puerisque</i>, is about to be reprinted. At +the same time a second volume called <i>Memories and +Portraits</i> will issue from the roaring loom. Its +interest will be largely autobiographical, Mr. S. having sketched +there the lineaments of many departed friends, and dwelt fondly, +and with a m’istened eye, upon byegone pleasures. The +two will be issued under the common title of <i>Familiar +Essays</i>; but the volumes will be vended separately to those +who are mean enough not to hawk at both.</p> +<p><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>The +blood is at last stopped: only yesterday. I began to think +I should not get away. However, I hope—I +hope—remark the word—no boasting—I hope I may +luff up a bit now. Dobell, whom I saw, gave as usual a good +account of my lungs, and expressed himself, like his neighbours, +hopefully about the trip. He says, my uncle says, Scott +says, Brown says—they all say—You ought not to be in +such a state of health; you should recover. Well, then, I +mean to. My spirits are rising again after three months of +black depression: I almost begin to feel as if I should care to +live: I would, by God! And so I believe I +shall.—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Bulletin +M‘Gurder</span>.</p> +<p>How has the Deacon gone?</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Skerryvore</i>, +<i>Bournemouth</i>], August 6<i>th</i>, 1887.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—We—my +mother, my wife, my stepson, my maidservant, and myself, five +souls—leave, if all is well, Aug. 20th, per Wilson line +<span class="GutSmall">SS</span>. <i>Ludgate Hill</i>. +Shall probably evade N. Y. at first, cutting straight to a +watering-place: Newport, I believe, its name. Afterwards we +shall steal incognito into <i>la bonne villa</i>, and see no one +but you and the Scribners, if it may be so managed. You +must understand I have been very seedy indeed, quite a dead body; +and unless the voyage does miracles, I shall have to draw it dam +fine. Alas, ‘The Canoe Speaks’ is now out of +date; it will figure in my volume of verses now imminent. +However, I may find some inspiration some day.—Till very +soon, yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Adelaide Boodle</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page61"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 61</span><i>Bournemouth</i>, <i>August</i> +19<i>th</i>, 1887.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MISS BOODLE</span>,—I +promise you the paper-knife shall go to sea with me; and if it +were in my disposal, I should promise it should return with me +too. All that you say, I thank you for very much; I thank +you for all the pleasantness that you have brought about our +house; and I hope the day may come when I shall see you again in +poor old Skerryvore, now left to the natives of Canada, or to +worse barbarians, if such exist. I am afraid my attempt to +jest is rather <i>à contre-cœur</i>. +Good-bye—<i>au revoir</i>—and do not forget your +friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Messrs. Chatto and Windus</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Bournemouth</i> [<i>August</i> +1887].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR SIRS</span>,—I here enclose +the two titles. Had you not better send me the bargains to +sign? I shall be here till Saturday; and shall have an +address in London (which I shall send you) till Monday, when I +shall sail. Even if the proofs do not reach you till Monday +morning, you could send a clerk from Fenchurch Street Station at +10.23 <span class="GutSmall">A.M.</span> for Galleons Station, +and he would find me embarking on board the <i>Ludgate Hill</i>, +Island Berth, Royal Albert Dock. Pray keep this in case it +should be necessary to catch this last chance. I am most +anxious to have the proofs with me on the voyage.—Yours +very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page62"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 62</span><i>H.M.S.</i> +‘<i>Vulgarium</i>,’</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Off Havre de Grace</i>, +<i>this</i> 22<i>nd</i> <i>day of August</i> [1887].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">SIR</span>,—The weather has been +hitherto inimitable. Inimitable is the only word that I can +apply to our fellow-voyagers, whom a categorist, possibly +premature, has been already led to divide into two +classes—the better sort consisting of the baser kind of +Bagman, and the worser of undisguised Beasts of the Field. +The berths are excellent, the pasture swallowable, the champagne +of H. James (to recur to my favourite adjective) +inimitable. As for the Commodore, he slept awhile in the +evening, tossed off a cup of Henry James with his plain meal, +walked the deck till eight, among sands and floating lights and +buoys and wrecked brigantines, came down (to his regret) a minute +too soon to see Margate lit up, turned in about nine, slept, with +some interruptions, but on the whole sweetly, until six, and has +already walked a mile or so of deck, among a fleet of other +steamers waiting for the tide, within view of Havre, and +pleasantly entertained by passing fishing-boats, hovering +sea-gulls, and Vulgarians pairing on deck with endearments of +primitive simplicity. There, sir, can be viewed the sham +quarrel, the sham desire for information, and every device of +these two poor ancient sexes (who might, you might think, have +learned in the course of the ages something new) down to the +exchange of head-gear.—I am, sir, yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Bold Bob +Boltsprit</span>.</p> +<p><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>B. B. +B. (<i>alias</i> the Commodore) will now turn to his +proofs. Havre de Grace is a city of some show. It is +for-ti-fied; and, so far as I can see, is a place of some +trade. It is situ-ated in France, a country of +Europe. You always complain there are no facts in my +letters.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Newport</i>, <i>R. I. U.S.A.</i> +[<i>September</i> 1887].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—So long it +went excellent well, and I had a time I am glad to have had; +really enjoying my life. There is nothing like being at +sea, after all. And O, why have I allowed myself to rot so +long on land? But on the Banks I caught a cold, and I have +not yet got over it. My reception here was idiotic to the +last degree. . . . It is very silly, and not pleasant, +except where humour enters; and I confess the poor interviewer +lads pleased me. They are too good for their trade; avoided +anything I asked them to avoid, and were no more vulgar in their +reports than they could help. I liked the lads.</p> +<p>O, it was lovely on our stable-ship, chock full of +stallions. She rolled heartily, rolled some of the fittings +out of our state-room, and I think a more dangerous cruise +(except that it was summer) it would be hard to imagine. +But we enjoyed it to the masthead, all but Fanny; and even she +perhaps a little. When we got in, we had run out of beer, +stout, cocoa, soda-water, water, fresh meat, and (almost) of +biscuit. But it was a thousandfold pleasanter than a great +big Birmingham liner like a new hotel; and we liked the officers, +and made friends with the quartermasters, and I (at least) made a +friend of a baboon (for we carried a cargo of apes), whose +embraces have pretty near cost me a coat. The passengers +improved, and were a very good specimen lot, with no drunkard, no +gambling that I saw, and less grumbling and backbiting than one +would have asked of poor human nature. Apes, stallions, +cows, matches, hay, <a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +64</span>and poor men-folk, all, or almost all, came successfully +to land.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Newport</i>, <i>U.S.A.</i>, +<i>September</i> 1887.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR JAMES</span>,—Here we are +at Newport in the house of the good Fairchilds; and a sad burthen +we have laid upon their shoulders. I have been in bed +practically ever since I came. I caught a cold on the Banks +after having had the finest time conceivable, and enjoyed myself +more than I could have hoped on board our strange floating +menagerie: stallions and monkeys and matches made our cargo; and +the vast continent of these incongruities rolled the while like a +haystack; and the stallions stood hypnotised by the motion, +looking through the ports at our dinner-table, and winked when +the crockery was broken; and the little monkeys stared at each +other in their cages, and were thrown overboard like little +bluish babies; and the big monkey, Jacko, scoured about the ship +and rested willingly in my arms, to the ruin of my clothing; and +the man of the stallions made a bower of the black tarpaulin, and +sat therein at the feet of a raddled divinity, like a picture on +a box of chocolates; and the other passengers, when they were not +sick, looked on and laughed. Take all this picture, and +make it roll till the bell shall sound unexpected notes and the +fittings shall break lose in our state-room, and you have the +voyage of the <i>Ludgate Hill</i>. She arrived in the port +of New York, without beer, porter, soda-water, curaçoa, +fresh meat, or fresh water; and yet we lived, and we regret +her.</p> +<p>My wife is a good deal run down, and I am no great shakes.</p> +<p>America is, as I remarked, a fine place to eat in, and a great +place for kindness; but, Lord, what a silly thing is +popularity! I envy the cool obscurity of Skerryvore. +If it even paid, said Meanness! and was abashed at +himself.—Yours most sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<h3><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span><span +class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>New York</i>: <i>end of +September</i> 1887.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR S. C.</span>,—Your +delightful letter has just come, and finds me in a New York +hotel, waiting the arrival of a sculptor (St. Gaudens) who is +making a medallion of yours truly and who is (to boot) one of the +handsomest and nicest fellows I have seen. I caught a cold +on the Banks; fog is not for me; nearly died of interviewers and +visitors, during twenty-four hours in New York; cut for Newport +with Lloyd and Valentine, a journey like fairy-land for the most +engaging beauties, one little rocky and pine-shaded cove after +another, each with a house and a boat at anchor, so that I left +my heart in each and marvelled why American authors had been so +unjust to their country; caught another cold on the train; +arrived at Newport to go to bed and to grow worse, and to stay in +bed until I left again; the Fairchilds proving during this time +kindness itself; Mr. Fairchild simply one of the most engaging +men in the world, and one of the children, Blair, <i>aet.</i> +ten, a great joy and amusement in his solemn adoring attitude to +the author of <i>Treasure Island</i>.</p> +<p>Here I was interrupted by the arrival of my sculptor. I +have begged him to make a medallion of himself and give me a +copy. I will not take up the sentence in which I was +wandering so long, but begin fresh. I was ten or twelve +days at Newport; then came back convalescent to New York. +Fanny and Lloyd are off to the Adirondacks to see if that will +suit; and the rest of us leave Monday (this is Saturday) to +follow them up. I hope we may manage to stay there all +winter. I have a splendid appetite and have on the whole +recovered well after a mighty sharp attack. I am now on a +salary of £500 a year for twelve articles in +<i>Scribner’s Magazine</i> on what I like; it is more than +£500, but I cannot calculate more precisely. You have +no idea how much is made of me <a name="page66"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 66</span>here; I was offered £2000 for a +weekly article—eh heh! how is that? but I refused that +lucrative job. The success of <i>Underwoods</i> is +gratifying. You see, the verses are sane; that is their +strong point, and it seems it is strong enough to carry them.</p> +<p>A thousand thanks for your grand letter, ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>New York</i> [<i>September</i> +1887]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LAD</span>,—Herewith +verses for Dr. Hake, which please communicate. I did my +best with the interviewers; I don’t know if Lloyd sent you +the result; my heart was too sick: you can do nothing with them; +and yet—literally sweated with anxiety to please, and took +me down in long hand!</p> +<p>I have been quite ill, but go better. I am being not +busted, but medallioned, by St. Gaudens, who is a first-rate, +plain, high-minded artist and honest fellow; you would like him +down to the ground. I believe sculptors are fine fellows +when they are not demons. O, I am now a salaried person, +£600 a year, <a name="citation66"></a><a href="#footnote66" +class="citation">[66]</a> to write twelve articles in +<i>Scribner’s Magazine</i>; it remains to be seen if it +really pays, huge as the sum is, but the slavery may overweigh +me. I hope you will like my answer to Hake, and specially +that he will.</p> +<p>Love to all.—Yours affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.<br /> +(<i>le salarie</i>).</p> +<h3><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span><span +class="smcap">to R. A. M. Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Saranac Lake</i>, +<i>Adirondacks</i>,<br /> +<i>New York</i>, <i>U.S.A.</i> [<i>October</i> 1887].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BOB</span>,—The cold [of +Colorado] was too rigorous for me; I could not risk the long +railway voyage, and the season was too late to risk the Eastern, +Cape Hatteras side of the steamer one; so here we stuck and +stick. We have a wooden house on a hill-top, overlooking a +river, and a village about a quarter of a mile away, and very +wooded hills; the whole scene is very Highland, bar want of +heather and the wooden houses.</p> +<p>I have got one good thing of my sea voyage: it is proved the +sea agrees heartily with me, and my mother likes it; so if I get +any better, or no worse, my mother will likely hire a yacht for a +month or so in summer. Good Lord! What fun! +Wealth is only useful for two things: a yacht and a string +quartette. For these two I will sell my soul. Except +for these I hold that £700 a year is as much as anybody can +possibly want; and I have had more, so I know, for the extry +coins were for no use, excepting for illness, which damns +everything.</p> +<p>I was so happy on board that ship, I could not have believed +it possible. We had the beastliest weather, and many +discomforts; but the mere fact of its being a tramp-ship gave us +many comforts; we could cut about with the men and officers, stay +in the wheel-house, discuss all manner of things, and really be a +little at sea. And truly there is nothing else. I had +literally forgotten what happiness was, and the full +mind—full of external and physical things, not full of +cares and labours and rot about a fellow’s behaviour. +My heart literally sang; I truly care for nothing so much as for +that. We took so north a course, that we saw Newfoundland; +no one in the ship had ever seen it before.</p> +<p>It was beyond belief to me how she rolled; in seemingly smooth +water, the bell striking, the fittings bounding <a +name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>out of our +state-room. It is worth having lived these last years, +partly because I have written some better books, which is always +pleasant, but chiefly to have had the joy of this voyage. I +have been made a lot of here, and it is sometimes pleasant, +sometimes the reverse; but I could give it all up, and agree +that—was the author of my works, for a good seventy ton +schooner and the coins to keep her on. And to think there +are parties with yachts who would make the exchange! I know +a little about fame now; it is no good compared to a yacht; and +anyway there is more fame in a yacht, more genuine fame; to cross +the Atlantic and come to anchor in Newport (say) with the Union +Jack, and go ashore for your letters and hang about the pier, +among the holiday yachtsmen—that’s fame, that’s +glory, and nobody can take it away; they can’t say your +book is bad; you <i>have</i> crossed the Atlantic. I should +do it south by the West Indies, to avoid the damned Banks; and +probably come home by steamer, and leave the skipper to bring the +yacht home.</p> +<p>Well, if all goes well, we shall maybe sail out of Southampton +water some of these days and take a run to Havre, and try the +Baltic, or somewhere.</p> +<p>Love to you all.—Ever your afft.,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Saranac Lake</i>, <i>Oct.</i> +8<i>th</i>, 1887.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—I have just +read your article twice, with cheers of approving laughter. +I do not believe you ever wrote anything so funny: +Tyndall’s ‘shell,’ the passage on the Davos +press and its invaluable issues, and that on V. Hugo and +Swinburne, are exquisite; so, I say <a name="page69"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 69</span>it more ruefully, is the touch about +the doctors. For the rest, I am very glad you like my +verses so well; and the qualities you ascribe to them seem to me +well found and well named. I own to that kind of candour +you attribute to me: when I am frankly interested, I suppose I +fancy the public will be so too; and when I am moved, I am sure +of it. It has been my luck hitherto to meet with no +staggering disillusion. ‘Before’ and +‘After’ may be two; and yet I believe the habit is +now too thoroughly ingrained to be altered. About the +doctors, you were right, that dedication has been the subject of +some pleasantries that made me grind, and of your happily touched +reproof which made me blush. And to miscarry in a +dedication is an abominable form of book-wreck; I am a good +captain, I would rather lose the tent and save my dedication.</p> +<p>I am at Saranac Lake in the Adirondacks, I suppose for the +winter: it seems a first-rate place; we have a house in the eye +of many winds, with a view of a piece of running +water—Highland, all but the dear hue of peat—and of +many hills—Highland also, but for the lack of +heather. Soon the snow will close on us; we are here some +twenty miles—twenty-seven, they say, but this I profoundly +disbelieve—in the woods; communication by letter is slow +and (let me be consistent) aleatory; by telegram is as near as +may be impossible.</p> +<p>I had some experience of American appreciation; I liked a +little of it, but there is too much; a little of that would go a +long way to spoil a man; and I like myself better in the +woods. I am so damned candid and ingenuous (for a cynic), +and so much of a ‘cweatu’ of impulse—aw’ +(if you remember that admirable Leech), that I begin to shirk any +more taffy; I think I begin to like it too well. But let us +trust the Gods; they have a rod in pickle; reverently I doff my +trousers, and with screwed eyes await the <i>amari aliquid</i> of +the great God Busby.</p> +<p>I thank you for the article in all ways, and remain yours +affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span><span +class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Saranac</i>, <i>October</i> +1887.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">SIR</span>,—I have to trouble you +with the following <i>paroles bien senties</i>. We are here +at a first-rate place. ‘Baker’s’ is the +name of our house, but we don’t address there; we prefer +the tender care of the Post-Office, as more aristocratic (it is +no use to telegraph even to the care of the Post-Office who does +not give a single damn <a name="citation70"></a><a +href="#footnote70" class="citation">[70]</a>). +Baker’s has a prophet’s chamber, which the +hypercritical might describe as a garret with a hole in the +floor: in that garret, sir, I have to trouble you and your wife +to come and slumber. Not now, however: with manly +hospitality, I choke off any sudden impulse. Because first, +my wife and my mother are gone (a note for the latter, strongly +suspected to be in the hand of your talented wife, now sits +silent on the mantel shelf), one to Niagara and t’other to +Indianapolis. Because, second, we are not yet +installed. And because third, I won’t have you till I +have a buffalo robe and leggings, lest you should want to paint +me as a plain man, which I am not, but a rank Saranacker and wild +man of the woods.—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to William Archer</span>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Saranac Lake</i>, <i>October</i> +1887.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR ARCHER</span>,—Many thanks +for the Wondrous Tale. It is scarcely a work of genius, as +I believe you felt. Thanks also for your pencillings; +though I defend ‘shrew,’ or at least many of the +shrews.</p> +<p>We are here (I suppose) for the winter in the Adirondacks, <a +name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>a hill and +forest country on the Canadian border of New York State, very +unsettled and primitive and cold, and healthful, or we are the +more bitterly deceived. I believe it will do well for me; +but must not boast.</p> +<p>My wife is away to Indiana to see her family; my mother, +Lloyd, and I remain here in the cold, which has been exceeding +sharp, and the hill air, which is inimitably fine. We all +eat bravely, and sleep well, and make great fires, and get along +like one o’clock.</p> +<p>I am now a salaried party; I am a <i>bourgeois</i> now; I am +to write a weekly paper for Scribner’s, at a scale of +payment which makes my teeth ache for shame and diffidence. +The editor is, I believe, to apply to you; for we were talking +over likely men, and when I instanced you, he said he had had his +eye upon you from the first. It is worth while, perhaps, to +get in tow with the Scribners; they are such thorough gentlefolk +in all ways that it is always a pleasure to deal with them. +I am like to be a millionaire if this goes on, and be publicly +hanged at the social revolution: well, I would prefer that to +dying in my bed; and it would be a godsend to my biographer, if +ever I have one. What are you about? I hope you are +all well and in good case and spirits, as I am now, after a most +nefast experience of despondency before I left; but indeed I was +quite run down. Remember me to Mrs. Archer, and give my +respects to Tom.—Yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page72"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 72</span>[<i>Saranac Lake</i>, <i>October</i> +1887.]<br /> +I know not the day; but the month it<br /> +is the drear October by the<br /> +ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENRY JAMES</span>,—This +is to say <i>First</i>, the voyage was a huge success. We +all enjoyed it (bar my wife) to the ground: sixteen days at sea +with a cargo of hay, matches, stallions, and monkeys, and in a +ship with no style on, and plenty of sailors to talk to, and the +endless pleasures of the sea—the romance of it, the sport +of the scratch dinner and the smashing crockery, the +pleasure—an endless pleasure—of balancing to the +swell: well, it’s over.</p> +<p><i>Second</i>, I had a fine time, rather a troubled one, at +Newport and New York; saw much of and liked hugely the +Fairchilds, St. Gaudens the sculptor, Gilder of the +<i>Century</i>—just saw the dear Alexander—saw a lot +of my old and admirable friend Will Low, whom I wish you knew and +appreciated—was medallioned by St. Gaudens, and at last +escaped to</p> +<p><i>Third</i>, Saranac Lake, where we now are, and which I +believe we mean to like and pass the winter at. Our +house—emphatically ‘Baker’s’—is on +a hill, and has a sight of a stream turning a corner in the +valley—bless the face of running water!—and sees some +hills too, and the paganly prosaic roofs of Saranac itself; the +Lake it does not see, nor do I regret that; I like water (fresh +water I mean) either running swiftly among stones, or else +largely qualified with whisky. As I write, the sun (which +has been long a stranger) shines in at my shoulder; from the next +room, the bell of Lloyd’s typewriter makes an agreeable +music as it patters off (at a rate which astonishes this +experienced novelist) the early chapters of a humorous romance; +from still further off—the walls of Baker’s are +neither ancient nor massive—rumours of Valentine about the +kitchen stove come to my ears; of my mother and <a +name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>Fanny I hear +nothing, for the excellent reason that they have gone sparking +off, one to Niagara, one to Indianapolis. People complain +that I never give news in my letters. I have wiped out that +reproach.</p> +<p>But now, <i>Fourth</i>, I have seen the article; and it may be +from natural partiality, I think it the best you have +written. O—I remember the Gautier, which was an +excellent performance; and the Balzac, which was good; and the +Daudet, over which I licked my chops; but the R. L. S. is better +yet. It is so humorous, and it hits my little frailties +with so neat (and so friendly) a touch; and Alan is the occasion +for so much happy talk, and the quarrel is so generously +praised. I read it twice, though it was only some hours in +my possession; and Low, who got it for me from the +<i>Century</i>, sat up to finish it ere he returned it; and, sir, +we were all delighted. Here is the paper out, nor will +anything, not even friendship, not even gratitude for the +article, induce me to begin a second sheet; so here with the +kindest remembrances and the warmest good wishes, I remain, yours +affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Saranac</i>, 18<i>th</i> +<i>November</i> 1887.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—No likely +I’m going to waste a sheet of paper. . . . I am +offered £1600 ($8000) for the American serial rights on my +next story! As you say, times are changed since the Lothian +Road. Well, the Lothian Road was grand fun too; I could +take an afternoon of it with great delight. But I’m +awfu’ grand noo, and long may it last!</p> +<p>Remember me to any of the faithful—if there are any +left. I wish I could have a crack with you.—Yours +ever affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>I find I have forgotten more than I remembered of business. . +. . Please let us know (if you know) for how much +Skerryvore is let; you will here detect the female mind; <a +name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>I let it for +what I could get; nor shall the possession of this knowledge +(which I am happy to have forgot) increase the amount by so much +as the shadow of a sixpenny piece; but my females are +agog.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Scribner</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Saranac</i>, <i>November</i> 20 +<i>or</i> 21, 1887.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MR. +SCRIBNER</span>,—Heaven help me, I am under a curse just +now. I have played fast and loose with what I said to you; +and that, I beg you to believe, in the purest innocence of +mind. I told you you should have the power over all my work +in this country; and about a fortnight ago, when M’Clure +was here, I calmly signed a bargain for the serial publication of +a story. You will scarce believe that I did this in mere +oblivion; but I did; and all that I can say is that I will do so +no more, and ask you to forgive me. Please write to me soon +as to this.</p> +<p>Will you oblige me by paying in for three articles, as already +sent, to my account with John Paton & Co., 52 William +Street? This will be most convenient for us.</p> +<p>The fourth article is nearly done; and I am the more deceived, +or it is <i>A Buster</i>.</p> +<p>Now as to the first thing in this letter, I do wish to hear +from you soon; and I am prepared to hear any reproach, or (what +is harder to hear) any forgiveness; for I have deserved the +worst.—Yours sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span><span +class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Saranac</i>, <i>November</i> +1887.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. BURLINGAME</span>,—I +enclose corrected proof of <i>Beggars</i>, which seems +good. I mean to make a second sermon, which, if it is about +the same length as <i>Pulvis et Umbra</i>, might go in along with +it as two sermons, in which case I should call the first +‘The Whole Creation,’ and the second ‘Any +Good.’ We shall see; but you might say how you like +the notion.</p> +<p>One word: if you have heard from Mr. Scribner of my unhappy +oversight in the matter of a story, you will make me ashamed to +write to you, and yet I wish to beg you to help me into quieter +waters. The oversight committed—and I do think it was +not so bad as Mr. Scribner seems to think it-and discovered, I +was in a miserable position. I need not tell you that my +first impulse was to offer to share or to surrender the price +agreed upon when it should fall due; and it is almost to my +credit that I arranged to refrain. It is one of these +positions from which there is no escape; I cannot undo what I +have done. And I wish to beg you—should Mr. Scribner +speak to you in the matter—to try to get him to see this +neglect of mine for no worse than it is: unpardonable enough, +because a breach of an agreement; but still pardonable, because a +piece of sheer carelessness and want of memory, done, God knows, +without design and since most sincerely regretted. I have +no memory. You have seen how I omitted to reserve the +American rights in <i>Jekyll</i>: last winter I wrote and +demanded, as an increase, a less sum than had already been agreed +upon for a story that I gave to Cassell’s. For once +that my forgetfulness has, by a cursed fortune, seemed to gain, +instead of lose, me money, it is painful indeed that I should +produce so poor an impression on the mind of Mr. Scribner. +But I beg you to believe, and if possible to make him believe, +that I am in no degree or sense a <i>faiseur</i>, and that in +matters of <a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +76</span>business my design, at least, is honest. Nor +(bating bad memory and self-deception) am I untruthful in such +affairs.</p> +<p>If Mr. Scribner shall have said nothing to you in the matter, +please regard the above as unwritten, and believe me, yours very +truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Saranac</i>, <i>November</i> +1887.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. BURLINGAME</span>,—The +revise seemed all right, so I did not trouble you with it; +indeed, my demand for one was theatrical, to impress that +obdurate dog, your reader. Herewith a third paper: it has +been a cruel long time upon the road, but here it is, and not bad +at last, I fondly hope. I was glad you liked the <i>Lantern +Bearers</i>; I did, too. I thought it was a good paper, +really contained some excellent sense, and was ingeniously put +together. I have not often had more trouble than I have +with these papers; thirty or forty pages of foul copy, twenty is +the very least I have had. Well, you pay high; it is fit +that I should have to work hard, it somewhat quiets my +conscience.—Yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to J. A. Symonds</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Saranac Lake</i>, <i>Adirondack +Mountains</i>,<br /> +<i>New York</i>, <i>U.S.A.</i>, <i>November</i> 21, 1887.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR SYMONDS</span>,—I think +we have both meant and wanted to write to you any time these +months; but we have been much tossed about, among new faces and +old, and new scenes and old, and scenes (like this of Saranac) +which are neither one nor other. To give you some clue to +our affairs, I had best begin pretty well back. We sailed +from the Thames in a vast bucket of iron that took seventeen days +from shore to shore. I cannot describe how I enjoyed the +voyage, nor what good it did me; but on the Banks I caught friend +catarrh. In New York and <a name="page77"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 77</span>then in Newport I was pretty ill; but +on my return to New York, lying in bed most of the time, with St. +Gaudens the sculptor sculping me, and my old friend Low around, I +began to pick up once more. Now here we are in a kind of +wilderness of hills and firwoods and boulders and snow and wooden +houses. So far as we have gone the climate is grey and +harsh, but hungry and somnolent; and although not charming like +that of Davos, essentially bracing and briskening. The +country is a kind of insane mixture of Scotland and a touch of +Switzerland and a dash of America, and a thought of the British +Channel in the skies. We have a decent house—</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>December</i> 6<i>th</i>.</p> +<p>—A decent house, as I was saying, sir, on a hill-top, +with a look down a Scottish river in front, and on one hand a +Perthshire hill; on the other, the beginnings and skirts of the +village play hide and seek among other hills. We have been +below zero, I know not how far (10 at 8 <span +class="GutSmall">A.M.</span> once), and when it is cold it is +delightful; but hitherto the cold has not held, and we have +chopped in and out from frost to thaw, from snow to rain, from +quiet air to the most disastrous north-westerly curdlers of the +blood. After a week of practical thaw, the ice still bears +in favoured places. So there is hope.</p> +<p>I wonder if you saw my book of verses? It went into a +second edition, because of my name, I suppose, and its +<i>prose</i> merits. I do not set up to be a poet. +Only an all-round literary man: a man who talks, not one who +sings. But I believe the very fact that it was only speech +served the book with the public. Horace is much a speaker, +and see how popular! most of Martial is only speech, and I cannot +conceive a person who does not love his Martial; most of Burns, +also, such as ‘The Louse,’ ‘The +Toothache,’ ‘The Haggis,’ and lots more of his +best. Excuse this little apology for my house; but I +don’t like to come before people who have a note of song, +and let it be supposed I do not know the difference.</p> +<p><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>To +return to the more important—news. My wife again +suffers in high and cold places; I again profit. She is off +to-day to New York for a change, as heretofore to Berne, but I am +glad to say in better case than then. Still it is +undeniable she suffers, and you must excuse her (at least) if we +both prove bad correspondents. I am decidedly better, but I +have been terribly cut up with business complications: one +disagreeable, as threatening loss; one, of the most intolerable +complexion, as involving me in dishonour. The burthen of +consistent carelessness: I have lost much by it in the past; and +for once (to my damnation) I have gained. I am sure you +will sympathise. It is hard work to sleep; it is hard to be +told you are a liar, and have to hold your peace, and think, +‘Yes, by God, and a thief too!’ You remember my +lectures on Ajax, or the Unintentional Sin? Well, I know +all about that now. Nothing seems so unjust to the +sufferer: or is more just in essence. <i>Laissez passer la +justice de Dieu</i>.</p> +<p>Lloyd has learned to use the typewriter, and has most +gallantly completed upon that the draft of a tale, which seems to +me not without merit and promise, it is so silly, so gay, so +absurd, in spots (to my partial eyes) so genuinely +humorous. It is true, he would not have written it but for +the New Arabian Nights; but it is strange to find a young writer +funny. Heavens, but I was depressing when I took the pen in +hand! And now I doubt if I am sadder than my +neighbours. Will this beginner move in the inverse +direction?</p> +<p>Let me have your news, and believe me, my dear Symonds, with +genuine affection, yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page79"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 79</span><i>Saranac</i> [<i>December</i> +1887].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LAD</span>,—I was indeed +overjoyed to hear of the Dumas. In the matter of the +dedication, are not cross dedications a little awkward? +Lang and Rider Haggard did it, to be sure. Perpend. +And if you should conclude against a dedication, there is a +passage in <i>Memories and Portraits</i> written <i>at</i> you, +when I was most desperate (to stir you up a bit), which might be +quoted: something about Dumas still waiting his biographer. +I have a decent time when the weather is fine; when it is grey, +or windy, or wet (as it too often is), I am merely degraded to +the dirt. I get some work done every day with a devil of a +heave; not extra good ever; and I regret my engagement. +Whiles I have had the most deplorable business annoyances too; +have been threatened with having to refund money; got over that; +and found myself in the worse scrape of being a kind of +unintentional swindler. These have worried me a great deal; +also old age with his stealing steps seems to have clawed me in +his clutch to some tune.</p> +<p>Do you play All Fours? We are trying it; it is still all +haze to me. Can the elder hand <i>beg</i> more than +once? The Port Admiral is at Boston mingling with +millionaires. I am but a weed on Lethe wharf. The +wife is only so-so. The Lord lead us all: if I can only get +off the stage with clean hands, I shall sing Hosanna. +‘Put’ is described quite differently from your +version in a book I have; what are your rules? The Port +Admiral is using a game of put in a tale of his, the first copy +of which was gloriously finished about a fortnight ago, and the +revise gallantly begun: <i>The Finsbury Tontine</i> it is named, +and might fill two volumes, and is quite incredibly silly, and in +parts (it seems to me) pretty humorous.—Love to all +from</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">An Old</span>, +<span class="smcap">Old Man</span>.</p> +<p>I say, Taine’s <i>Origines de la France +Contemporaine</i> is no end; it would turn the dead body of +Charles Fox into a living Tory.</p> +<h3><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span><span +class="smcap">to Mrs. Fleeming Jenkin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Saranac Lake</i>, +<i>December</i> 1887.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN</span>,—The +Opal is very well; it is fed with glycerine when it seems +hungry. I am very well, and get about much more than I +could have hoped. My wife is not very well; there is no +doubt the high level does not agree with her, and she is on the +move for a holiday to New York. Lloyd is at Boston on a +visit, and I hope has a good time. My mother is really +first-rate; she and I, despairing of other games for two, now +play All Fours out of a gamebook, and have not yet discovered its +niceties, if any.</p> +<p>You will have heard, I dare say, that they made a great row +over me here. They also offered me much money, a great deal +more than my works are worth: I took some of it, and was greedy +and hasty, and am now very sorry. I have done with big +prices from now out. Wealth and self-respect seem, in my +case, to be strangers.</p> +<p>We were talking the other day of how well Fleeming managed to +grow rich. Ah, that is a rare art; something more +intellectual than a virtue. The book has not yet made its +appearance here; the life alone, with a little preface, is to +appear in the States; and the Scribners are to send you half the +royalties. I should like it to do well, for +Fleeming’s sake.</p> +<p>Will you please send me the Greek water-carrier’s +song? I have a particular use for it.</p> +<p>Have I any more news, I wonder?—and echo wonders along +with me. I am strangely disquieted on all political +matters; and I do not know if it is ‘the signs of the +times’ or the sign of my own time of life. But to me +the sky seems black both in France and England, and only partly +clear in America. I have not seen it so dark in my time; of +that I am sure.</p> +<p>Please let us have some news; and, excuse me, for the sake of +my well-known idleness; and pardon Fanny, who <a +name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>is really not +very well, for this long silence.—Very sincerely your +friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Adelaide Boodle</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Saranac Lake</i>, +<i>December</i> 1887.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MISS BOODLE</span>,—I am +so much afraid, our gamekeeper may weary of unacknowledged +reports! Hence, in the midst of a perfect horror of +detestable weathers of a quite incongruous strain, and with less +desire for correspondence than—well, than—well, with +no desire for correspondence, behold me dash into the +breach. Do keep up your letters. They are most +delightful to this exiled backwoods family; and in your next, we +shall hope somehow or other to hear better news of you and +yours—that in the first place—and to hear more news +of our beasts and birds and kindly fruits of earth and those +human tenants who are (truly) too much with us.</p> +<p>I am very well; better than for years: that is for good. +But then my wife is no great shakes; the place does not suit +her—it is my private opinion that no place does—and +she is now away down to New York for a change, which (as Lloyd is +in Boston) leaves my mother and me and Valentine alone in our +wind-beleaguered hilltop hatbox of a house. You should hear +the cows butt against the walls in the early morning while they +feed; you should also see our back log when the thermometer goes +(as it does go) away—away below zero, till it can be seen +no more by the eye of man—not the thermometer, which is +still perfectly visible, but the mercury, which curls up into the +bulb like a hibernating bear; you should also see the lad who +‘does <a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +82</span>chores’ for us, with his red stockings and his +thirteen year old face, and his highly manly tramp into the room; +and his two alternative answers to all questions about the +weather: either ‘Cold,’ or with a really lyrical +movement of the voice, +‘<i>Lovely</i>—raining!’</p> +<p>Will you take this miserable scarp for what it is worth? +Will you also understand that I am the man to blame, and my wife +is really almost too much out of health to write, or at least +doesn’t write?—And believe me, with kind remembrance +to Mrs. Boodle and your sisters, very sincerely yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span></p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Saranac</i>, 12<i>th</i> +<i>December</i> ’87.</p> +<p>Give us news of all your folk. A Merry Christmas from +all of us.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—Will you +please send £20 to — for a Christmas gift from +—? Moreover, I cannot remember what I told you to +send to —; but as God has dealt so providentially with me +this year, I now propose to make it £20.</p> +<p>I beg of you also to consider my strange position. I +jined a club which it was said was to defend the Union; and had a +letter from the secretary, which his name I believe was Lord +Warmingpan (or words to that effect), to say I am elected, and +had better pay up a certain sum of money, I forget what. +Now I cannae verra weel draw a blank cheque and send +to—</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Lord +Warmingpan</span> (or words to that effect),<br /> +London, England.</p> +<p>And, man, if it was possible, I would be dooms glad to be out +o’ this bit scrapie. Mebbe the club was ca’d +‘The Union,’ but I wouldnae like to sweir; and mebbe +it wasnae, or mebbe only words to that effec’—but I +wouldnae care just exac’ly about sweirin’. Do +ye no think Henley, or Pollick, or some o’ they London +fellies, micht mebbe <a name="page83"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 83</span>perhaps find out for me? and just +what the soom was? And that you would aiblins pay for +me? For I thocht I was sae dam patriotic jinin’, and +it would be a kind o’ a come-doun to be turned out +again. Mebbe Lang would ken; or mebbe Rider Haggyard: +they’re kind o’ Union folks. But it’s my +belief his name was Warmingpan whatever. Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Thomson</span>,<br /> +<i>alias</i> <span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>Could it be Warminster? <a name="citation83"></a><a +href="#footnote83" class="citation">[83]</a></p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Monroe</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Saranac Lake</i>, <i>New York</i> +[<i>December</i> 19, 1887].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MISS MONROE</span>,—Many +thanks for your letter and your good wishes. It was much my +desire to get to Chicago: had I done—or if I yet +do—so, I shall hope to see the original of my photograph, +which is one of my show possessions; but the fates are rather +contrary. My wife is far from well; I myself dread worse +than almost any other imaginable peril, that miraculous and +really insane invention the American Railroad Car. Heaven +help the man—may I add the woman—that sets foot in +one! Ah, if it were only an ocean to cross, it would be a +matter of small thought to me—and great pleasure. But +the railroad car—every man has his weak point; and I fear +the railroad car as abjectly as I do an earwig, and, on the +whole, on better grounds. You do not know how bitter it is +to have to make such a confession; for you have not the +pretension nor the weakness of a man. If I do get to +Chicago, you will hear of me: so much can be said. And do +you never come east?</p> +<p>I was pleased to recognise a word of my poor old Deacon in +your letter. It would interest me very much <a +name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>to hear how +it went and what you thought of piece and actors; and my +collaborator, who knows and respects the photograph, would be +pleased too.—Still in the hope of seeing you, I am, yours +very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Saranac Lake</i>, <i>Winter</i> +1887–8.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENRY JAMES</span>,—It +may please you to know how our family has been employed. In +the silence of the snow the afternoon lamp has lighted an eager +fireside group: my mother reading, Fanny, Lloyd, and I devoted +listeners; and the work was really one of the best works I ever +heard; and its author is to be praised and honoured; and what do +you suppose is the name of it? and have you ever read it +yourself? and (I am bound I will get to the bottom of the page +before I blow the gaff, if I have to fight it out on this line +all summer; for if you have not to turn a leaf, there can be no +suspense, the conspectory eye being swift to pick out proper +names; and without suspense, there can be little pleasure in this +world, to my mind at least)—and, in short, the name of it +is <i>Roderick Hudson</i>, if you please. My dear James, it +is very spirited, and very sound, and very noble too. +Hudson, Mrs. Hudson, Rowland, O, all first-rate: Rowland a very +fine fellow; Hudson as good as he can stick (did you know +Hudson? I suspect you did), Mrs. H. his real born mother, a +thing rarely managed in fiction.</p> +<p>We are all keeping pretty fit and pretty hearty; but this +letter is not from me to you, it is from a reader of <i>R. H.</i> +to the author of the same, and it says nothing, and has nothing +to say, but thank you.</p> +<p>We are going to re-read <i>Casamassima</i> as a proper +pendant. Sir, I think these two are your best, and care not +who knows it.</p> +<p>May I beg you, the next time <i>Roderick</i> is printed off, +<a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>to go over +the sheets of the last few chapters, and strike out +‘immense’ and ‘tremendous’? You +have simply dropped them there like your pocket-handkerchief; all +you have to do is to pick them up and pouch them, and your +room—what do I say?—your cathedral!—will be +swept and garnished.—I am, dear sir, your delighted +reader,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—Perhaps it is a pang of causeless honesty, +perhaps. I hope it will set a value on my praise of +<i>Roderick</i>, perhaps it’s a burst of the diabolic, but +I must break out with the news that I can’t bear the +<i>Portrait of a Lady</i>. I read it all, and I wept too; +but I can’t stand your having written it; and I beg you +will write no more of the like. <i>Infra</i>, sir; Below +you: I can’t help it—it may be your favourite work, +but in my eyes it’s <span class="GutSmall">BELOW YOU</span> +to write and me to read. I thought <i>Roderick</i> was +going to be another such at the beginning; and I cannot describe +my pleasure as I found it taking bones and blood, and looking out +at me with a moved and human countenance, whose lineaments are +written in my memory until my last of days.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>My wife begs your forgiveness; I believe for her silence.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p84ab.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Manuscript of letter" +title= +"Manuscript of letter" + src="images/p84as.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p84bb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Manuscript of letter" +title= +"Manuscript of letter" + src="images/p84bs.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Saranac Lake</i> [<i>December</i> +1887].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—This goes +to say that we are all fit, and the place is very bleak and +wintry, and up to now has shown no such charms of climate as +Davos, but is a place where men eat and where the cattarh, +catarrh (cattarrh, or cattarrhh) appears to be unknown. I +walk in my verandy in the snaw, sir, looking down over one of +those dabbled wintry landscapes that are (to be frank) so chilly +to the human bosom, and up at a grey, English—nay, +<i>mehercle</i>, Scottish—heaven; and I think it pretty +bleak; and the wind swoops at me round the corner, like a lion, +and fluffs the snow in my face; and I could aspire to be <a +name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>elsewhere; +but yet I do not catch cold, and yet, when I come in, I +eat. So that hitherto Saranac, if not deliriously +delectable, has not been a failure; nay, from the mere point of +view of the wicked body, it has proved a success. But I +wish I could still get to the woods; alas, <i>nous n’irons +plus au bois</i> is my poor song; the paths are buried, the +dingles drifted full, a little walk is grown a long one; till +spring comes, I fear the burthen will hold good.</p> +<p>I get along with my papers for <i>Scribner</i> not fast, nor +so far specially well; only this last, the fourth one (which +makes a third part of my whole task), I do believe is pulled off +after a fashion. It is a mere sermon: ‘Smith opens +out’; <a name="citation86"></a><a href="#footnote86" +class="citation">[86]</a> but it is true, and I find it touching +and beneficial, to me at least; and I think there is some fine +writing in it, some very apt and pregnant phrases. +<i>Pulvis et Umbra</i>, I call it; I might have called it a +Darwinian Sermon, if I had wanted. Its sentiments, although +parsonic, will not offend even you, I believe. The other +three papers, I fear, bear many traces of effort, and the +ungenuine inspiration of an income at so much per essay, and the +honest desire of the incomer to give good measure for his +money. Well, I did my damndest anyway.</p> +<p>We have been reading H. James’s <i>Roderick Hudson</i>, +which I eagerly press you to get at once: it is a book of a high +order—the last volume in particular. I wish Meredith +would read it. It took my breath away.</p> +<p>I am at the seventh book of the <i>Æneid</i>, and quite +amazed at its merits (also very often floored by its +difficulties). The Circe passage at the beginning, and the +sublime business of Amata with the simile of the boy’s +top—O Lord, what a happy thought!—have specially +delighted me.—I am, dear sir, your respected friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">John Gregg +Gillson</span>, J.P., M.R.I.A., etc.</p> +<h3><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span><span +class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Saranac</i>, <i>December</i> 24, +1887.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Thank you +for your explanations. I have done no more Virgil since I +finished the seventh book, for I have, first been eaten up with +Taine, and next have fallen head over heels into a new tale, +<i>The Master of Ballantrae</i>. No thought have I now +apart from it, and I have got along up to page ninety-two of the +draft with great interest. It is to me a most seizing tale: +there are some fantastic elements; the most is a dead genuine +human problem—human tragedy, I should say rather. It +will be about as long, I imagine, as <i>Kidnapped</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">DRAMATIS PERSONAE:</p> +<p class="gutindent">(1) My old Lord Durrisdeer.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(2) The Master of Ballantrae, <i>and</i></p> +<p class="gutindent">(3) Henry Durie, <i>his sons</i>.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(4) Clementina, <i>engaged to the first</i>, +<i>married to the second</i>.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(5) Ephraim Mackellar, <i>land steward at +Durrisdeer and narrator of the most of the book</i>.</p> +<p class="gutindent">(6) Francis Burke, Chevalier de St. Louis, +<i>one of Prince Charlie’s Irishmen and narrator of the +rest</i>.</p> +<p>Besides these, many instant figures, most of them dumb or +nearly so: Jessie Brown the whore, Captain Crail, Captain +MacCombie, our old friend Alan Breck, our old friend Riach (both +only for an instant), Teach the pirate (vulgarly Blackbeard), +John Paul and Macconochie, servants at Durrisdeer. The date +is from 1745 to ’65 (about). The scene, near +Kirkcudbright, in the States, and for a little moment in the +French East Indies. I <a name="page88"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 88</span>have done most of the big work, the +quarrel, duel between the brothers, and announcement of the death +to Clementina and my Lord—Clementina, Henry, and Mackellar +(nicknamed Squaretoes) are really very fine fellows; the Master +is all I know of the devil. I have known hints of him, in +the world, but always cowards; he is as bold as a lion, but with +the same deadly, causeless duplicity I have watched with so much +surprise in my two cowards. ’Tis true, I saw a hint +of the same nature in another man who was not a coward; but he +had other things to attend to; the Master has nothing else but +his devilry. Here come my visitors—and have now gone, +or the first relay of them; and I hope no more may come. +For mark you, sir, this is our ‘day’—Saturday, +as ever was, and here we sit, my mother and I, before a large +wood fire and await the enemy with the most steadfast courage; +and without snow and greyness: and the woman Fanny in New York +for her health, which is far from good; and the lad Lloyd at the +inn in the village because he has a cold; and the handmaid +Valentine abroad in a sleigh upon her messages; and to-morrow +Christmas and no mistake. Such is human life: <i>la +carrière humaine</i>. I will enclose, if I remember, +the required autograph.</p> +<p>I will do better, put it on the back of this page. Love +to all, and mostly, my very dear Colvin, to yourself. For +whatever I say or do, or don’t say or do, you may be very +sure I am,—Yours always affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Adelaide Boodle</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Saranac Lake</i>, +<i>Adirondacks</i>, <i>N.Y.</i>, <i>U.S.A.</i>, <i>Christmas</i> +1887.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MISS BOODLE</span>,—And a +very good Christmas to you all; and better fortune; and if worse, +the more courage to support it—which I think is the kinder +wish in all human affairs. Somewhile—I fear a good +while—after this, you should receive our Christmas gift; we +have <a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>no +tact and no taste, only a welcome and (often) tonic brutality; +and I dare say the present, even after my friend Baxter has acted +on and reviewed my hints, may prove a White Elephant. That +is why I dread presents. And therefore pray understand if +any element of that hamper prove unwelcome, <i>it is to be +exchanged</i>. I will not sit down under the name of a +giver of White Elephants. I never had any elephant but one, +and his initials were R. L. S.; and he trod on my foot at a very +early age. But this is a fable, and not in the least to the +point: which is that if, for once in my life, I have wished to +make things nicer for anybody but the Elephant (see fable), do +not suffer me to have made them ineffably more embarrassing, and +exchange—ruthlessly exchange!</p> +<p>For my part, I am the most cockered up of any mortal being; +and one of the healthiest, or thereabout, at some modest distance +from the bull’s eye. I am condemned to write twelve +articles in <i>Scribner’s Magazine</i> for the love of +gain; I think I had better send you them; what is far more to the +purpose, I am on the jump with a new story which has bewitched +me—I doubt it may bewitch no one else. It is called +<i>The Master of Ballantrae</i>—pronounce +Bällän-tray. If it is not good, well, mine will +be the fault; for I believe it is a good tale.</p> +<p>The greetings of the season to you, and your mother, and your +sisters. My wife heartily joins.—And I am, yours very +sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—You will think me an illiterate dog: I am, +for the first time, reading <i>Robertson’s +Sermons</i>. I do not know how to express how much I think +of them. If by any chance you should be as illiterate as I, +and not know them, it is worth while curing the defect.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page90"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 90</span><i>Saranac Lake</i>, <i>January</i> +’88.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR CHARLES</span>,—You are the +flower of Doers. . . . Will my doer collaborate thus much in my +new novel? In the year 1794 or 5, Mr. Ephraim Mackellar, +A.M., late steward on the Durrisdeer estates, completed a set of +memoranda (as long as a novel) with regard to the death of the +(then) late Lord Durrisdeer, and as to that of his attainted +elder brother, called by the family courtesy title the Master of +Ballantrae. These he placed in the hands of John +Macbrair. W.S., the family agent, on the understanding they +were to be sealed until 1862, when a century would have elapsed +since the affair in the wilderness (my lord’s death). +You succeeded Mr. Macbrair’s firm; the Durrisdeers are +extinct; and last year, in an old green box, you found these +papers with Macbrair’s indorsation. It is that +indorsation of which I want a copy; you may remember, when you +gave me the papers, I neglected to take that, and I am sure you +are a man too careful of antiquities to have let it fall +aside. I shall have a little introduction descriptive of my +visit to Edinburgh, arrival there, denner with yoursel’, +and first reading of the papers in your smoking-room: all of +which, of course, you well remember.—Ever yours +affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L S.</p> +<p>Your name is my friend Mr. Johnstone Thomson, W.S.!!!</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Saranac</i>, <i>Winter</i> +1887–8.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. BURLINGAME</span>,—I am +keeping the sermon to see if I can’t add another. +Meanwhile, I will send you very soon a different paper which may +take its place. Possibly some of these days soon I may get +together a <a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +91</span>talk on things current, which should go in (if possible) +earlier than either. I am now less nervous about these +papers; I believe I can do the trick without great strain, though +the terror that breathed on my back in the beginning is not yet +forgotten.</p> +<p><i>The Master of Ballantrae</i> I have had to leave aside, as +I was quite worked out. But in about a week I hope to try +back and send you the first four numbers: these are all drafted, +it is only the revision that has broken me down, as it is often +the hardest work. These four I propose you should set up +for me at once, and we’ll copyright ’em in a +pamphlet. I will tell you the names of the <i>bona fide</i> +purchasers in England.</p> +<p>The numbers will run from twenty to thirty pages of my +manuscript. You can give me that much, can you not? +It is a howling good tale—at least these first four numbers +are; the end is a trifle more fantastic, but ’tis all +picturesque.</p> +<p>Don’t trouble about any more French books; I am on +another scent, you see, just now. Only the <i>French in +Hindustan</i> I await with impatience, as that is for +<i>Ballantrae</i>. The scene of that romance is +Scotland—the +States—Scotland—India—Scotland—and the +States again; so it jumps like a flea. I have enough about +the States now, and very much obliged I am; yet if Drake’s +<i>Tragedies of the Wilderness</i> is (as I gather) a collection +of originals, I should like to purchase it. If it is a +picturesque vulgarisation, I do not wish to look it in the +face. Purchase, I say; for I think it would be well to have +some such collection by me with a view to fresh +works.—Yours very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—If you think of having the <i>Master</i> +illustrated, I suggest that Hole would be very well up to the +Scottish, which is the larger part. If you have it done +here, tell your artist to look at the hall of Craigievar in +Billing’s <i>Baronial and Ecclesiastical Antiquities</i>, +and he will get a <a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +92</span>broad hint for the hall at Durrisdeer: it is, I think, +the chimney of Craigievar and the roof of Pinkie, and perhaps a +little more of Pinkie altogether; but I should have to see the +book myself to be sure. Hole would be invaluable for +this. I dare say if you had it illustrated, you could let +me have one or two for the English edition.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to William Archer</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Saranac</i>, <i>Winter</i> +1887–8.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR ARCHER</span>,—What am I +to say? I have read your friend’s book with singular +relish. If he has written any other, I beg you will let me +see it; and if he has not, I beg him to lose no time in supplying +the deficiency. It is full of promise; but I should like to +know his age. There are things in it that are very clever, +to which I attach small importance; it is the shape of the +age. And there are passages, particularly the rally in +presence of the Zulu king, that show genuine and remarkable +narrative talent—a talent that few will have the wit to +understand, a talent of strength, spirit, capacity, sufficient +vision, and sufficient self-sacrifice, which last is the chief +point in a narrator.</p> +<p>As a whole, it is (of course) a fever dream of the most +feverish. Over Bashville the footman I howled with derision +and delight; I dote on Bashville—I could read of him for +ever; <i>de Bashville je suis le fervent</i>—there is only +one Bashville, and I am his devoted slave; <i>Bashville est +magnifique</i>, <i>mais il n’est guère +possible</i>. He is the note of the book. It is all +mad, mad and deliriously delightful; the author has a taste in +chivalry like Walter Scott’s or Dumas’, and then he +daubs in little bits of socialism; he soars away on the wings of +the romantic griffon—even the griffon, as he cleaves air, +shouting with laughter at the nature of the quest—and I +believe in his heart he <a name="page93"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 93</span>thinks he is labouring in a quarry of +solid granite realism.</p> +<p>It is this that makes me—the most hardened adviser now +extant—stand back and hold my peace. If Mr. Shaw is +below five-and-twenty, let him go his path; if he is thirty, he +had best be told that he is a romantic, and pursue romance with +his eyes open;—or perhaps he knows it;—God +knows!—my brain is softened.</p> +<p>It is <span class="GutSmall">HORRID FUN</span>. All I +ask is more of it. Thank you for the pleasure you gave us, +and tell me more of the inimitable author.</p> +<p>(I say, Archer, my God, what women!)—Yours very +truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to William Archer</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Saranac</i>, <i>February</i> +1888.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR ARCHER</span>,—Pretty +sick in bed; but necessary to protest and continue your +education.</p> +<p>Why was Jenkin an amateur in my eyes? You think because +not amusing (I think he often was amusing). The reason is +this: I never, or almost never, saw two pages of his work that I +could not have put in one without the smallest loss of +material. That is the only test I know of writing. If +there is anywhere a thing said in two sentences that could have +been as clearly and as engagingly and as forcibly said in one, +then it’s amateur work. Then you will bring me up +with old Dumas. Nay, the object of a story is to be long, +to fill up hours; the story-teller’s art of writing is to +water out by continual invention, historical and technical, and +yet not seem to water; seem on the other hand to practise that +same wit of conspicuous and declaratory condensation which is the +proper art of writing. That is one thing in which my +stories fail: I am always cutting the flesh off their bones.</p> +<p>I would rise from the dead to preach!</p> +<p>Hope all well. I think my wife better, but she’s +not allowed to write; and this (only wrung from me by desire <a +name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>to Boss and +Parsonise and Dominate, strong in sickness) is my first letter +for days, and will likely be my last for many more. Not +blame my wife for her silence: doctor’s orders. All +much interested by your last, and fragment from brother, and +anecdotes of Tomarcher.—The sick but still Moral</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>Tell Shaw to hurry up: I want another.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to William Archer</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Saranac</i>, <i>Spring</i> +1888?]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR ARCHER</span>,—It +happened thus. I came forth from that performance in a +breathing heat of indignation. (Mind, at this distance of +time and with my increased knowledge, I admit there is a problem +in the piece; but I saw none then, except a problem in brutality; +and I still consider the problem in that case not +established.) On my way down the <i>Français</i> +stairs, I trod on an old gentleman’s toes, whereupon with +that suavity that so well becomes me, I turned about to +apologise, and on the instant, repenting me of that intention, +stopped the apology midway, and added something in French to this +effect: No, you are one of the <i>lâches</i> who have been +applauding that piece. I retract my apology. Said the +old Frenchman, laying his hand on my arm, and with a smile that +was truly heavenly in temperance, irony, good-nature, and +knowledge of the world, ‘Ah, monsieur, vous êtes bien +jeune!’—Yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Saranac</i> [<i>February</i> +1888].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. BURLINGAME</span>,—Will +you send me (from the library) some of the works of my dear old +G. P. R. James. <a name="page95"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 95</span>With the following especially I +desire to make or to renew acquaintance: <i>The Songster</i>, +<i>The Gipsy</i>, <i>The Convict</i>, <i>The Stepmother</i>, +<i>The Gentleman of the Old School</i>, <i>The Robber</i>.</p> +<p><i>Excusez du peu</i>.</p> +<p>This sudden return to an ancient favourite hangs upon an +accident. The ‘Franklin County Library’ +contains two works of his, <i>The Cavalier</i> and <i>Morley +Ernstein</i>. I read the first with indescribable +amusement—it was worse than I had feared, and yet somehow +engaging; the second (to my surprise) was better than I had dared +to hope: a good honest, dull, interesting tale, with a genuine +old-fashioned talent in the invention when not strained; and a +genuine old-fashioned feeling for the English language. +This experience awoke appetite, and you see I have taken steps to +stay it.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Saranac</i>, <i>February</i> +1888.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. +BURLINGAME</span>,—1. Of course then don’t use +it. Dear Man, I write these to please you, not myself, and +you know a main sight better than I do what is good. In +that case, however, I enclose another paper, and return the +corrected proof of <i>Pulvis et Umbra</i>, so that we may be +afloat.</p> +<p>2. I want to say a word as to the <i>Master</i>. +(<i>The Master of Ballantrae</i> shall be the name by all +means.) If you like and want it, I leave it to you to make +an offer. You may remember I thought the offer you made +when I was still in England too small; by which I did not at all +mean, I thought it less than it was worth, but too little to +tempt me to undergo the disagreeables of serial +publication. This tale (if you want it) you are to have; +for it is the least I can do for you; and you are to observe that +the sum you pay me for my articles going far to meet my wants, I +am quite open to be satisfied with less than formerly. I +tell you I do dislike this battle of the dollars. <a +name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>I feel sure +you all pay too much here in America; and I beg you not to spoil +me any more. For I am getting spoiled: I do not want +wealth, and I feel these big sums demoralise me.</p> +<p>My wife came here pretty ill; she had a dreadful bad night; +to-day she is better. But now Valentine is ill; and Lloyd +and I have got breakfast, and my hand somewhat shakes after +washing dishes.—Yours very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—Please order me the <i>Evening Post</i> for +two months. My subscription is run out. The +<i>Mutiny</i> and <i>Edwardes</i> to hand.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Saranac</i>, <i>March</i> +1888.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Fanny has +been very unwell. She is not long home, has been ill again +since her return, but is now better again to a degree. You +must not blame her for not writing, as she is not allowed to +write at all, not even a letter. To add to our misfortunes, +Valentine is quite ill and in bed. Lloyd and I get +breakfast; I have now, 10.15, just got the dishes washed and the +kitchen all clear, and sit down to give you as much news as I +have spirit for, after such an engagement. Glass is a thing +that really breaks my spirit: I do not like to fail, and with +glass I cannot reach the work of my high calling—the +artist’s.</p> +<p>I am, as you may gather from this, wonderfully better: this +harsh, grey, glum, doleful climate has done me good. You +cannot fancy how sad a climate it is. When the thermometer +stays all day below 10°, it is really cold; and when the wind +blows, O commend me to the result. Pleasure in life is all +delete; there is no red spot left, fires do not radiate, you burn +your hands all the time on what seem to be cold stones. It +is odd, zero is like summer heat to us now; and we like, when the +thermometer <a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +97</span>outside is really low, a room at about 48°: 60° +we find oppressive. Yet the natives keep their holes at +90° or even 100°.</p> +<p>This was interrupted days ago by household labours. +Since then I have had and (I tremble to write it, but it does +seem as if I had) beaten off an influenza. The cold is +exquisite. Valentine still in bed. The proofs of the +first part of the <i>Master of Ballantrae</i> begin to come in; +soon you shall have it in the pamphlet form; and I hope you will +like it. The second part will not be near so good; but +there—we can but do as it’ll do with us. I have +every reason to believe this winter has done me real good, so far +as it has gone; and if I carry out my scheme for next winter, and +succeeding years, I should end by being a tower of +strength. I want you to save a good holiday for next +winter; I hope we shall be able to help you to some larks. +Is there any Greek Isle you would like to explore? or any creek +in Asia Minor?—Yours ever affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to the Rev. Dr. Charteris</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Saranac Lake</i>, <i>Winter</i> +1887–1888.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR DR. CHARTERIS</span>,—I +have asked Douglas and Foulis to send you my last volume, so that +you may possess my little paper on my father in a permanent +shape; not for what that is worth, but as a tribute of respect to +one whom my father regarded with such love, esteem, and +affection. Besides, as you will see, I have brought you +under contribution, and I have still to thank you for your letter +to my mother; so more than kind; in much, so just. It is my +hope, when time and health permit, to do something more definite +for my father’s memory. You are one of the very few +who can (if you <a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +98</span>will) help me. Pray believe that I lay on you no +obligation; I know too well, you may believe me, how difficult it +is to put even two sincere lines upon paper, where all, too, is +to order. But if the spirit should ever move you, and you +should recall something memorable of your friend, his son will +heartily thank you for a note of it.—With much respect, +believe me, yours sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Saranac Lake</i>, <i>March</i> +1888.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR DELIGHTFUL +JAMES</span>,—To quote your heading to my wife, I think no +man writes so elegant a letter, I am sure none so kind, unless it +be Colvin, and there is more of the stern parent about him. +I was vexed at your account of my admired Meredith: I wish I +could go and see him; as it is I will try to write. I read +with indescribable admiration your <i>Emerson</i>. I begin +to long for the day when these portraits of yours shall be +collected: do put me in. But Emerson is a higher +flight. Have you a <i>Tourgueneff</i>? You have told +me many interesting things of him, and I seem to see them +written, and forming a graceful and <i>bildend</i> sketch. +My novel is a tragedy; four parts out of six or seven are +written, and gone to Burlingame. Five parts of it are +sound, human tragedy; the last one or two, I regret to say, not +so soundly designed; I almost hesitate to write them; they are +very picturesque, but they are fantastic; they shame, perhaps +degrade, the beginning. I wish I knew; that was how the +tale came to me however. I got the situation; it was an old +taste of mine: The older brother goes out in the ’45, the +younger stays; the younger, of course, gets title and estate and +marries the bride designate of the elder—a family match, +but he (the younger) had always loved her, and she had really +loved the elder. Do you see the situation? Then the +devil and Saranac <a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>suggested this <i>dénouement</i>, and I joined +the two ends in a day or two of constant feverish thought, and +began to write. And now—I wonder if I have not gone +too far with the fantastic? The elder brother is an <span +class="GutSmall">INCUBUS</span>: supposed to be killed at +Culloden, he turns up again and bleeds the family of money; on +that stopping he comes and lives with them, whence flows the real +tragedy, the nocturnal duel of the brothers (very naturally, and +indeed, I think, inevitably arising), and second supposed death +of the elder. Husband and wife now really make up, and then +the cloven hoof appears. For the third supposed death and +the manner of the third reappearance is steep; steep, sir. +It is even very steep, and I fear it shames the honest stuff so +far; but then it is highly pictorial, and it leads up to the +death of the elder brother at the hands of the younger in a +perfectly cold-blooded murder, of which I wish (and mean) the +reader to approve. You see how daring is the design. +There are really but six characters, and one of these episodic, +and yet it covers eighteen years, and will be, I imagine, the +longest of my works.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p><i>Read Gosse’s Raleigh</i>. +First-rate.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to the Rev. Dr. Charteris</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Saranac Lake</i>, +<i>Adirondacks</i>,<br /> +<i>New York</i>, <i>U.S.A.</i>, <i>Spring</i> 1888.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR DR. CHARTERIS</span>,—The +funeral letter, your notes, and many other things, are reserved +for a book, <i>Memorials of a Scottish Family</i>, if ever I can +find time and opportunity. I wish I could throw off all +else and sit down to it to-day. Yes, my father was a +‘distinctly religious man,’ but not a pious. +The distinction painfully and pleasurably recalls old conflicts; +it used to be my great gun—and you, who suffered for the +whole Church, know how needful it was to have some reserve +artillery! <a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +100</span>His sentiments were tragic; he was a tragic +thinker. Now, granted that life is tragic to the marrow, it +seems the proper function of religion to make us accept and serve +in that tragedy, as officers in that other and comparable one of +war. Service is the word, active service, in the military +sense; and the religious man—I beg pardon, the pious +man—is he who has a military joy in duty—not he who +weeps over the wounded. We can do no more than try to do +our best. Really, I am the grandson of the manse—I +preach you a kind of sermon. Box the brat’s ears!</p> +<p>My mother—to pass to matters more within my +competence—finely enjoys herself. The new country, +some new friends we have made, the interesting experiment of this +climate-which (at least) is tragic—all have done her +good. I have myself passed a better winter than for years, +and now that it is nearly over have some diffident hopes of doing +well in the summer and ‘eating a little more air’ +than usual.</p> +<p>I thank you for the trouble you are taking, and my mother +joins with me in kindest regards to yourself and Mrs. +Charteris.—Yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to S. R. Crockett</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Saranac Lake</i>, <i>Spring</i> +1888.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MINISTER OF THE FREE KIRK AT +PENICUIK</span>,—For O, man, I cannae read your +name!—That I have been so long in answering your delightful +letter sits on my conscience badly. The fact is I let my +correspondence accumulate until I am going to leave a place; and +then I pitch in, overhaul the pile, and my cries of penitence +might be heard a mile about. Yesterday I despatched +thirty-five belated letters: conceive the state of my conscience, +above all as the Sins of Omission (see boyhood’s guide, the +Shorter Catechism) are in my view the only <a +name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>serious +ones; I call it my view, but it cannot have escaped you that it +was also Christ’s. However, all that is not to the +purpose, which is to thank you for the sincere pleasure afforded +by your charming letter. I get a good few such; how few +that please me at all, you would be surprised to learn—or +have a singularly just idea of the dulness of our race; how few +that please me as yours did, I can tell you in one +word—<i>None</i>. I am no great kirkgoer, for many +reasons—and the sermon’s one of them, and the first +prayer another, but the chief and effectual reason is the +stuffiness. I am no great kirkgoer, says I, but when I read +yon letter of yours, I thought I would like to sit under +ye. And then I saw ye were to send me a bit buik, and says +I, I’ll wait for the bit buik, and then I’ll mebbe +can read the man’s name, and anyway I’ll can kill twa +birds wi’ ae stane. And, man! the buik was +ne’er heard tell o’!</p> +<p>That fact is an adminicle of excuse for my delay.</p> +<p>And now, dear minister of the illegible name, thanks to you, +and greeting to your wife, and may you have good guidance in your +difficult labours, and a blessing on your life.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">(No just so young sae young’s +he was, though—<br /> +I’m awfae near forty, man.)</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Address c/o <span +class="smcap">Charles Scribner’s Sons</span>,<br /> +743 <span class="smcap">Broadway</span>, <span class="smcap">New +York</span>.</p> +<p>Don’t put ‘N.B.’ in your paper: put +<i>Scotland</i>, and be done with it. Alas, that I should +be thus stabbed in the home of my friends! The name of my +native land is not <i>North Britain</i>, whatever may be the name +of yours.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Ferrier</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Saranac Lake</i>, <i>April</i> +1888.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAREST COGGIE</span>,—I wish +I could find the letter I began to you some time ago when I was +ill; but I can’t <a name="page102"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 102</span>and I don’t believe there was +much in it anyway. We have all behaved like pigs and beasts +and barn-door poultry to you; but I have been sunk in work, and +the lad is lazy and blind and has been working too; and as for +Fanny, she has been (and still is) really unwell. I had a +mean hope you might perhaps write again before I got up steam: I +could not have been more ashamed of myself than I am, and I +should have had another laugh.</p> +<p>They always say I cannot give news in my letters: I shall +shake off that reproach. On Monday, if she is well enough, +Fanny leaves for California to see her friends; it is rather an +anxiety to let her go alone; but the doctor simply forbids it in +my case, and she is better anywhere than here—a bleak, +blackguard, beggarly climate, of which I can say no good except +that it suits me and some others of the same or similar +persuasions whom (by all rights) it ought to kill. It is a +form of Arctic St. Andrews, I should imagine; and the miseries of +forty degrees below zero, with a high wind, have to be felt to be +appreciated. The greyness of the heavens here is a +circumstance eminently revolting to the soul; I have near forgot +the aspect of the sun—I doubt if this be news; it is +certainly no news to us. My mother suffers a little from +the inclemency of the place, but less on the whole than would be +imagined. Among other wild schemes, we have been projecting +yacht voyages; and I beg to inform you that Cogia Hassan was cast +for the part of passenger. They may come off!—Again +this is not news. The lad? Well, the lad wrote a tale +this winter, which appeared to me so funny that I have taken it +in hand, and some of these days you will receive a copy of a work +entitled ‘<i>A Game of Bluff</i>, by Lloyd Osbourne and +Robert Louis Stevenson.’</p> +<p>Otherwise he (the lad) is much as usual. There remains, +I believe, to be considered only R. L. S., the house-bond, prop, +pillar, bread-winner, and bully of the establishment. Well, +I do think him much better; he is <a name="page103"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 103</span>making piles of money; the hope of +being able to hire a yacht ere long dances before his eyes; +otherwise he is not in very high spirits at this particular +moment, though compared with last year at Bournemouth an angel of +joy.</p> +<p>And now is this news, Cogia, or is it not? It all +depends upon the point of view, and I call it news. The +devil of it is that I can think of nothing else, except to send +you all our loves, and to wish exceedingly you were here to cheer +us all up. But we’ll see about that on board the +yacht.—Your affectionate friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Saranac Lake</i>], <i>April</i> +9<i>th</i>!! 1888</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I have +been long without writing to you, but am not to blame, I had some +little annoyances quite for a private eye, but they ran me so +hard that I could not write without lugging them in, which (for +several reasons) I did not choose to do. Fanny is off to +San Francisco, and next week I myself flit to New York: address +Scribner’s. Where we shall go I know not, nor (I was +going to say) care; so bald and bad is my frame of mind. Do +you know our—ahem!—fellow clubman, Colonel +Majendie? I had such an interesting letter from him. +Did you see my sermon? It has evoked the worst feeling: I +fear people don’t care for the truth, or else I don’t +tell it. Suffer me to wander without purpose. I have +sent off twenty letters to-day, and begun and stuck at a +twenty-first, and taken a copy of one which was on business, and +corrected several galleys of proof, and sorted about a bushel of +old letters; so if any one has a right to be romantically stupid +it is I—and I am. Really deeply stupid, and at that +stage when in old days I used to pour out words without any +meaning whatever and with my mind taking no part in the +performance. I suspect that <a name="page104"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 104</span>is now the case. I am reading +with extraordinary pleasure the life of Lord Lawrence: Lloyd and +I have a mutiny novel—</p> +<p>(<i>Next morning</i>, <i>after twelve other +letters</i>)—mutiny novel on hand—a tremendous +work—so we are all at Indian books. The idea of the +novel is Lloyd’s: I call it a novel. ’Tis a +tragic romance, of the most tragic sort: I believe the end will +be almost too much for human endurance—when the hero is +thrown to the ground with one of his own (Sepoy) soldier’s +knees upon his chest, and the cries begin in the +Beebeeghar. O truly, you know it is a howler! The +whole last part is—well the difficulty is that, short of +resuscitating Shakespeare, I don’t know who is to write +it.</p> +<p>I still keep wonderful. I am a great performer before +the Lord on the penny whistle. Dear sir, sincerely +yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Andrew +Jackson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Adelaide Boodle</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Saranac Lake</i>, <i>April</i> +1888.]<br /> +<i>Address c/o Messrs. Scribner’s Sons</i>,<br /> +743 <i>Broadway</i>, <i>N.Y.</i></p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GAMEKEEPER</span>,—Your +p. c. (proving you a good student of Micawber) has just arrived, +and it paves the way to something I am anxious to say. I +wrote a paper the other day—<i>Pulvis et Umbra</i>;—I +wrote it with great feeling and conviction: to me it seemed +bracing and healthful, it is in such a world (so seen by me), +that I am very glad to fight out my battle, and see some fine +sunsets, and hear some excellent jests between whiles round the +camp fire. But I find that to some people this vision of +mine is a nightmare, and extinguishes all ground of faith in God +or pleasure in man. Truth I think not so much of; for I do +not know it. And I could wish in my heart that I had not +published this paper, if it troubles folk too much: all have not +the same digestion, nor the same sight of things. And it +came over me with special pain that perhaps this article (which I +was at the pains to <a name="page105"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 105</span>send to her) might give dismalness +to my <i>Gamekeeper at Home</i>. Well, I cannot take back +what I have said; but yet I may add this. If my view be +everything but the nonsense that it may be—to me it seems +self-evident and blinding truth—surely of all things it +makes this world holier. There is nothing in it but the +moral side—but the great battle and the breathing times +with their refreshments. I see no more and no less. +And if you look again, it is not ugly, and it is filled with +promise.</p> +<p>Pray excuse a desponding author for this apology. My +wife is away off to the uttermost parts of the States, all by +herself. I shall be off, I hope, in a week; but +where? Ah! that I know not. I keep wonderful, and my +wife a little better, and the lad flourishing. We now +perform duets on two D tin whistles; it is no joke to make the +bass; I think I must really send you one, which I wish you would +correct . . . I may be said to live for these instrumental +labours now, but I have always some childishness on hand.—I +am, dear Gamekeeper, your indulgent but intemperate Squire,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page106"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 106</span><i>Union House</i>, +<i>Manasquan</i>, <i>N.J.</i>, <i>but address to +Scribner’s</i>,<br /> +11<i>th</i> <i>May</i> 1888.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—I have +found a yacht, and we are going the full pitch for seven +months. If I cannot get my health back (more or less), +’tis madness; but, of course, there is the hope, and I will +play big. . . . If this business fails to set me up, well, +£2000 is gone, and I know I can’t get better. +We sail from San Francisco, June 15th, for the South Seas in the +yacht <i>Casco</i>.—With a million thanks for all your dear +friendliness, ever yours affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Homer St. Gaudens</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Manasquan</i>, <i>New Jersey</i>, +27<i>th</i> <i>May</i> 1888.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR HOMER ST. +GAUDENS</span>,—Your father has brought you this day to see +me, and he tells me it is his hope you may remember the +occasion. I am going to do what I can to carry out his +wish; and it may amuse you, years after, to see this little scrap +of paper and to read what I write. I must begin by +testifying that you yourself took no interest whatever in the +introduction, and in the most proper spirit displayed a +single-minded ambition to get back to play, and this I thought an +excellent and admirable point in your character. You were +also (I use the past tense, with a view to the time when you +shall read, rather than to that when I am writing) a very pretty +boy, and (to my European views) startlingly self-possessed. +My time of observation was so limited that you must pardon me if +I can say no more: what else I marked, what restlessness of foot +and hand, what graceful clumsiness, what experimental designs +upon the furniture, was <a name="page107"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 107</span>but the common inheritance of human +youth. But you may perhaps like to know that the lean +flushed man in bed, who interested you so little, was in a state +of mind extremely mingled and unpleasant: harassed with work +which he thought he was not doing well, troubled with +difficulties to which you will in time succeed, and yet looking +forward to no less a matter than a voyage to the South Seas and +the visitation of savage and desert islands.—Your +father’s friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Manasquan</i> (<i>ahem</i>!), +<i>New Jersey</i>, <i>May</i> 28<i>th</i>, 1888.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR JAMES</span>,—With what a +torrent it has come at last! Up to now, what I like best is +the first number of a <i>London Life</i>. You have never +done anything better, and I don’t know if perhaps you have +ever done anything so good as the girl’s outburst: +tip-top. I have been preaching your later works in your +native land. I had to present the Beltraffio volume to Low, +and it has brought him to his knees; he was <i>amazed</i> at the +first part of Georgina’s Reasons, although (like me) not so +well satisfied with Part <span class="GutSmall">II</span>. +It is annoying to find the American public as stupid as the +English, but they will waken up in time: I wonder what they will +think of <i>Two Nations</i>? . . .</p> +<p>This, dear James, is a valedictory. On June 15th the +schooner yacht <i>Casco</i> will (weather and a jealous +providence permitting) steam through the Golden Gates for +Honolulu, Tahiti, the Galapagos, Guayaquil, and—I hope +<i>not</i> the bottom of the Pacific. It will contain your +obedient ’umble servant and party. It seems too good +to be true, and is a very good way of getting through the +green-sickness of maturity which, with all its accompanying ills, +is now declaring itself in my mind and life. They tell me +it is not so severe as that of youth; if I (and the <i>Casco</i>) +are spared, I shall tell you more exactly, as I am one of the few +people in the world who do not forget their own lives.</p> +<p><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>Good-bye, then, my dear fellow, and please write us a +word; we expect to have three mails in the next two months: +Honolulu, Tahiti, and Guayaquil. But letters will be +forwarded from Scribner’s, if you hear nothing more +definite directly. In 3 (three) days I leave for San +Francisco.—Ever yours most cordially,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h2>X<br /> +PACIFIC VOYAGES<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">JUNE 1888-NOVEMBER 1890</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +114</span><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Yacht</i> +‘<i>Casco</i>,’ <i>Anaho Bay</i>, <i>Nukahiva</i>,<br +/> +<i>Marquesas Islands</i> [<i>July</i> 1888].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—From this +somewhat (ahem) out of the way place, I write to say how +d’ye do. It is all a swindle: I chose these isles as +having the most beastly population, and they are far better, and +far more civilised than we. I know one old chief Ko-o-amua, +a great cannibal in his day, who ate his enemies even as he +walked home from killing ’em, and he is a perfect gentleman +and exceedingly amiable and simple-minded: no fool, though.</p> +<p>The climate is delightful; and the harbour where we lie one of +the loveliest spots imaginable. Yesterday evening we had +near a score natives on board; lovely parties. We have a +native god; very rare now. Very rare and equally absurd to +view.</p> +<p>This sort of work is not favourable to correspondence: it +takes me all the little strength I have to go about and see, and +then come home and note, the strangeness around us. I +shouldn’t wonder if there came trouble here some day, all +the same. I could name a nation that is not beloved in +certain islands—and it does not know it! <a +name="citation114"></a><a href="#footnote114" +class="citation">[114]</a> Strange: like ourselves, +perhaps, in India! Love to all and much to yourself.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Yacht</i> +‘<i>Casco</i>,’ <i>at sea</i>, <i>near the +Paumotus</i>,<br /> +7 <span class="GutSmall">A.M.</span>, <i>September</i> +6<i>th</i>, 1888, <i>with a dreadful pen</i>.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—Last +night as I lay under my blanket in the cockpit, courting sleep, I +had a comic seizure. There was nothing visible but the +southern stars, and the steersman there out by the binnacle lamp; +we were all looking forward to a most deplorable landfall on the +morrow, praying God we should fetch a tuft of <a +name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>palms which +are to indicate the Dangerous Archipelago; the night was as warm +as milk, and all of a sudden I had a vision of—Drummond +Street. It came on me like a flash of lightning: I simply +returned thither, and into the past. And when I remember +all I hoped and feared as I pickled about Rutherford’s in +the rain and the east wind; how I feared I should make a mere +shipwreck, and yet timidly hoped not; how I feared I should never +have a friend, far less a wife, and yet passionately hoped I +might; how I hoped (if I did not take to drink) I should possibly +write one little book, etc. etc. And then now—what a +change! I feel somehow as if I should like the incident set +upon a brass plate at the corner of that dreary thoroughfare for +all students to read, poor devils, when their hearts are +down. And I felt I must write one word to you. Excuse +me if I write little: when I am at sea, it gives me a headache; +when I am in port, I have my diary crying ‘Give, +give.’ I shall have a fine book of travels, I feel +sure; and will tell you more of the South Seas after very few +months than any other writer has done—except Herman +Melville perhaps, who is a howling cheese. Good luck to +you, God bless you.—Your affectionate friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Fakarava</i>, <i>Low +Archipelago</i>, <i>September</i> 21<i>st</i>, 1888.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Only a +word. Get out your big atlas, and imagine a straight line +from San Francisco to Anaho, the N.E. corner of Nukahiva, one of +the Marquesas Islands; imagine three weeks there: imagine a +day’s sail on August 12th round the eastern end of the +island to Tai-o-hae, the capital; imagine us there till August +22nd: imagine us skirt the east side of Ua-pu—perhaps +Rona-Poa on your atlas—and through the Bondelais straits to +Taaka-uku in Hiva-Oa, where we arrive on the 23rd; imagine us +there until September 4th, when we sailed for Fakarava, which we +reached on the 9th, after a <a name="page116"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 116</span>very difficult and dangerous passage +among these isles. Tuesday, we shall leave for Taiti, where +I shall knock off and do some necessary work ashore. It +looks pretty bald in the atlas; not in fact; nor I trust in the +130 odd pages of diary which I have just been looking up for +these dates: the interest, indeed, has been <i>incredible</i>: I +did not dream there were such places or such races. My +health has stood me splendidly; I am in for hours wading over the +knees for shells; I have been five hours on horseback: I have +been up pretty near all night waiting to see where the +<i>Casco</i> would go ashore, and with my diary all +ready—simply the most entertaining night of my life. +Withal I still have colds; I have one now, and feel pretty sick +too; but not as at home: instead of being in bed, for instance, I +am at this moment sitting snuffling and writing in an undershirt +and trousers; and as for colour, hands, arms, feet, legs, and +face, I am browner than the berry: only my trunk and the +aristocratic spot on which I sit retain the vile whiteness of the +north.</p> +<p>Please give my news and kind love to Henley, Henry James, and +any whom you see of well-wishers. Accept from me the very +best of my affection: and believe me ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">The Old Man +Virulent</span>.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Taiti</i>, <i>October</i> +7<i>th</i>, 1888.</p> +<p>Never having found a chance to send this off, I may add more +of my news. My cold took a very bad turn, and I am pretty +much out of sorts at this particular, living in a little bare +one-twentieth-furnished house, surrounded by mangoes, etc. +All the rest are well, and I mean to be soon. But these +Taiti colds are very severe and, to children, often fatal; so +they were not the thing for me. Yesterday the brigantine +came in from San Francisco, so we can get our letters off +soon. There are in Papeete at this moment, in a little +wooden house with grated verandahs, two people who love you very +much, and one of them is</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +117</span><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Taiti</i>, <i>as ever was</i>, +6<i>th</i> <i>October</i> 1888.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—. . . You +will receive a lot of mostly very bad proofs of photographs: the +paper was so bad. Please keep them very private, as they +are for the book. We send them, having learned so dread a +fear of the sea, that we wish to put our eggs in different +baskets. We have been thrice within an ace of being ashore: +we were lost (!) for about twelve hours in the Low Archipelago, +but by God’s blessing had quiet weather all the time; and +once, in a squall, we cam’ so near gaun heels ower hurdies, +that I really dinnae ken why we didnae athegither. Hence, +as I say, a great desire to put our eggs in different baskets, +particularly on the Pacific (aw-haw-haw) Pacific Ocean.</p> +<p>You can have no idea what a mean time we have had, owing to +incidental beastlinesses, nor what a glorious, owing to the +intrinsic interest of these isles. I hope the book will be +a good one; nor do I really very much doubt that—the stuff +is so curious; what I wonder is, if the public will rise to +it. A copy of my journal, or as much of it as is made, +shall go to you also; it is, of course, quite imperfect, much +being to be added and corrected; but O, for the eggs in the +different baskets.</p> +<p>All the rest are well enough, and all have enjoyed the cruise +so far, in spite of its drawbacks. We have had an awfae +time in some ways, Mr. Baxter; and if I wasnae sic a verra +patient man (when I ken that I <i>have</i> to be) there wad hae +been a braw row; and ance if I hadnae happened to be on deck +about three in the marnin’, I <i>think</i> there would have +been <i>murder</i> done. The American Mairchant Marine is a +kent service; ye’ll have heard its praise, I’m +thinkin’; an’ if ye never did, ye can get <i>Twa +Years Before the Mast</i>, by Dana, whaur forbye a great deal +o’ pleisure, ye’ll get a’ the needcessary +information. Love to your father and all the +family.—Ever your affectionate friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +118</span><span class="smcap">to Miss Adelaide Boodle</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Taiti</i>, <i>October</i> +10<i>th</i>, 1888.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR GIVER</span>,—I am at a loss +to conceive your object in giving me to a person so locomotory as +my proprietor. The number of thousand miles that I have +travelled, the strange bed-fellows with which I have been made +acquainted, I lack the requisite literary talent to make clear to +your imagination. I speak of bed-fellows; pocket-fellows +would be a more exact expression, for the place of my abode is in +my master’s righthand trouser-pocket; and there, as he +waded on the resounding beaches of Nukahiva, or in the shallow +tepid water on the reef of Fakarava, I have been overwhelmed by +and buried among all manner of abominable South Sea shells, +beautiful enough in their way, I make no doubt, but singular +company for any self-respecting paper-cutter. He, my +master—or as I more justly call him, my bearer; for +although I occasionally serve him, does not he serve me daily and +all day long, carrying me like an African potentate on my +subject’s legs?—<i>he</i> is delighted with these +isles, and this climate, and these savages, and a variety of +other things. He now blows a flageolet with singular +effects: sometimes the poor thing appears stifled with shame, +sometimes it screams with agony; he pursues his career with +truculent insensibility. Health appears to reign in the +party. I was very nearly sunk in a squall. I am sorry +I ever left England, for here there are no books to be had, and +without books there is no stable situation for, dear Giver, your +affectionate</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Wooden +Paper-Cutter</span>.</p> +<p>A neighbouring pair of scissors snips a kiss in your +direction.</p> +<h3><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +119</span><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Taiti</i>, <i>October</i> +16<i>th</i>, 1888.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—The +cruiser for San Francisco departs to-morrow morning bearing you +some kind of a scratch. This much more important packet +will travel by way of Auckland. It contains a ballant; and +I think a better ballant than I expected ever to do. I can +imagine how you will wag your pow over it; and how ragged you +will find it, etc., but has it not spirit all the same? and +though the verse is not all your fancy painted it, has it not +some life? And surely, as narrative, the thing has +considerable merit! Read it, get a typewritten copy taken, +and send me that and your opinion to the Sandwiches. I know +I am only courting the most excruciating mortification; but the +real cause of my sending the thing is that I could bear to go +down myself, but not to have much <span +class="GutSmall">MS</span>. go down with me. To say truth, +we are through the most dangerous; but it has left in all minds a +strong sense of insecurity, and we are all for putting eggs in +various baskets.</p> +<p>We leave here soon, bound for Uahiva, Reiatea, Bora-Bora, and +the Sandwiches.</p> +<p class="poetry">O, how my spirit languishes<br /> +To step ashore on the Sanguishes;<br /> +For there my letters wait,<br /> +There shall I know my fate.<br /> +O, how my spirit languidges<br /> +To step ashore on the Sanguidges.</p> +<p>18<i>th</i>.—I think we shall leave here if all is well +on Monday. I am quite recovered, astonishingly recovered. +It must be owned these climates and this voyage have <a +name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>given me +more strength than I could have thought possible. And yet +the sea is a terrible place, stupefying to the mind and poisonous +to the temper, the sea, the motion, the lack of space, the cruel +publicity, the villainous tinned foods, the sailors, the captain, +the passengers—but you are amply repaid when you sight an +island, and drop anchor in a new world. Much trouble has +attended this trip, but I must confess more pleasure. Nor +should I ever complain, as in the last few weeks, with the curing +of my illness indeed, as if that were the bursting of an abscess, +the cloud has risen from my spirits and to some degree from my +temper. Do you know what they called the <i>Casco</i> at +Fakarava? The <i>Silver Ship</i>. Is that not +pretty? Pray tell Mrs. Jenkin, <i>die silberne Frau</i>, as +I only learned it since I wrote her. I think of calling the +book by that name: <i>The Cruise of the Silver Ship</i>—so +there will be one poetic page at least—the title. At +the Sandwiches we shall say farewell to the <i>S. S.</i> with +mingled feelings. She is a lovely creature: the most +beautiful thing at this moment in Taiti.</p> +<p>Well, I will take another sheet, though I know I have nothing +to say. You would think I was bursting: but the voyage is +all stored up for the book, which is to pay for it, we fondly +hope; and the troubles of the time are not worth telling; and our +news is little.</p> +<p>Here I conclude (Oct. 24th, I think), for we are now stored, +and the Blue Peter metaphorically flies.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to William and Thomas Archer</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Taiti</i>, <i>October</i> +17<i>th</i>, 1888.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR ARCHER</span>,—Though quite +unable to write letters, I nobly send you a line signifying +nothing. The voyage has agreed well with all; it has had +its pains, and its <a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +121</span>extraordinary pleasures; nothing in the world can equal +the excitement of the first time you cast anchor in some bay of a +tropical island, and the boats begin to surround you, and the +tattooed people swarm aboard. Tell Tomarcher, with my +respex, that hide-and-seek is not equal to it; no, nor +hidee-in-the-dark; which, for the matter of that, is a game for +the unskilful: the artist prefers daylight, a good-sized garden, +some shrubbery, an open paddock, and—come on, Macduff.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Tomarcher</span>, I am now a distinguished +litterytour, but that was not the real bent of my genius. I +was the best player of hide-and-seek going; not a good runner, I +was up to every shift and dodge, I could jink very well, I could +crawl without any noise through leaves, I could hide under a +carrot plant, it used to be my favourite boast that I always +<i>walked</i> into the den. You may care to hear, +Tomarcher, about the children in these parts; their parents obey +them, they do not obey their parents; and I am sorry to tell you +(for I dare say you are already thinking the idea a good one) +that it does not pay one halfpenny. There are three sorts +of civilisation, Tomarcher: the real old-fashioned one, in which +children either had to find out how to please their dear papas, +or their dear papas cut their heads off. This style did +very well, but is now out of fashion. Then the modern +European style: in which children have to behave reasonably well, +and go to school and say their prayers, or their dear papas +<i>will know the reason why</i>. This does fairly +well. Then there is the South Sea Island plan, which does +not do one bit. The children beat their parents here; it +does not make their parents any better; so do not try it.</p> +<p>Dear Tomarcher, I have forgotten the address of your new +house, but will send this to one of your papa’s +publishers. Remember us all to all of you, and believe me, +yours respectably,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +122</span><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Tautira</i> (<i>The Garden of the +World</i>), <i>otherwise called</i><br /> +<i>Hans-Christian-Andersen-ville</i> [<i>November</i> 1888].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—Whether I +have a penny left in the wide world, I know not, nor shall know, +till I get to Honolulu, where I anticipate a devil of an +awakening. It will be from a mighty pleasant dream at +least: Tautira being mere Heaven. But suppose, for the sake +of argument, any money to be left in the hands of my painful +doer, what is to be done with it? Save us from exile would +be the wise man’s choice, I suppose; for the exile +threatens to be eternal. But yet I am of opinion—in +case there should be <i>some</i> dibs in the hand of the P.D., +<i>i.e.</i> painful doer; because if there be none, I shall take +to my flageolet on the high-road, and work home the best way I +can, having previously made away with my family—I am of +opinion that if — and his are in the customary state, and +you are thinking of an offering, and there should be still some +funds over, you would be a real good P.D. to put some in with +yours and tak’ the credit o’t, like a wee man! +I know it’s a beastly thing to ask; but it, after all, does +no earthly harm, only that much good. And besides, like +enough there’s nothing in the till, and there is an +end. Yet I live here in the full lustre of millions; it is +thought I am the richest son of man that has yet been to Tautira: +I!—and I am secretly eaten with the fear of lying in pawn, +perhaps for the remainder of my days, in San Francisco. As +usual, my colds have much hashed my finances.</p> +<p>Do tell Henley I write this just after having dismissed Ori +the sub-chief, in whose house I live, Mrs. Ori, and Pairai, their +adopted child, from the evening hour of <a +name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>music: +during which I Publickly (with a k) Blow on the Flageolet. +These are words of truth. Yesterday I told Ori about W. E. +H., counterfeited his playing on the piano and the pipe, and +succeeded in sending the six feet four there is of that sub-chief +somewhat sadly to his bed; feeling that his was not the genuine +article after all. Ori is exactly like a colonel in the +Guards.—I am, dear Charles, ever yours affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Tautira</i>, 10<i>th</i> +<i>November</i> ’88.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—Our +mainmast is dry-rotten, and we are all to the devil; I shall lie +in a debtor’s jail. Never mind, Tautira is first +chop. I am so besotted that I shall put on the back of this +my attempt at words to Wandering Willie; if you can conceive at +all the difficulty, you will also conceive the vanity with which +I regard any kind of result; and whatever mine is like, it has +some sense, and Burns’s has none.</p> +<p class="poetry">Home no more home to me, whither must I +wander?<br /> + Hunger my driver, I go where I must.<br /> +Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather;<br /> + Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the +dust.<br /> +Loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree.<br /> + The true word of welcome was spoken in the +door—<br /> +Dear days of old, with the faces in the firelight,<br /> + Kind folks of old, you come again no more.</p> +<p class="poetry">Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly +faces,<br /> + Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child.<br +/> +Fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland;<br /> + Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild.<br +/> +Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland,<br /> + Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is +cold.<br /> +Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed,<br /> + The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the +place of old.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +124</span><span class="smcap">to J. A. Symonds</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>November</i> 11<i>th</i> +1888.</p> +<p><i>One November night</i>, <i>in the village of Tautira</i>, +<i>we sat at the high table in the hall of assembly</i>, +<i>hearing the natives sing</i>. <i>It was dark in the +hall</i>, <i>and very warm</i>; <i>though at times the land wind +blew a little shrewdly through the chinks</i>, <i>and at +times</i>, <i>through the larger openings</i>, <i>we could see +the moonlight on the lawn</i>. <i>As the songs arose in the +rattling Tahitian chorus</i>, <i>the chief translated here and +there a verse</i>. <i>Farther on in the volume you shall +read the songs themselves</i>; <i>and I am in hopes that not you +only</i>, <i>but all who can find a savour in the ancient poetry +of places</i>, <i>will read them with some pleasure</i>. +<i>You are to conceive us</i>, <i>therefore</i>, <i>in strange +circumstances and very pleasing</i>; <i>in a strange land and +climate</i>, <i>the most beautiful on earth</i>; <i>surrounded by +a foreign race that all travellers have agreed to be the most +engaging</i>; <i>and taking a double interest in two foreign +arts</i>.</p> +<p><i>We came forth again at last</i>, <i>in a cloudy +moonlight</i>, <i>on the forest lawn which is the street of +Tautira</i>. <i>The Pacific roared outside upon the +reef</i>. <i>Here and there one of the scattered palm-built +lodges shone out under the shadow of the wood</i>, <i>the +lamplight bursting through the crannies of the wall</i>. +<i>We went homeward slowly</i>, <i>Ori a Ori carrying behind us +the lantern and the chairs</i>, <i>properties with which we had +just been enacting our part of the distinguished +visitor</i>. <i>It was one of those moments in which minds +not altogether churlish recall the names and deplore the absence +of congenial friends</i>; <i>and it was your name that first rose +upon our lips</i>. ‘<i>How Symonds would have enjoyed +this evening</i>!’ <i>said one</i>, <i>and then +another</i>. <i>The word caught in my mind</i>; <i>I went +to bed</i>, <i>and it was still there</i>. <i>The +glittering</i>, <i>frosty solitudes in which your days are cast +arose before me</i>: <i>I seemed to see you walking there in the +late night</i>, <i>under the pine-trees and the stars</i>; <i>and +I received the image with something like remorse</i>.</p> +<p><i>There is a modern attitude towards fortune</i>; <i>in this +place I will not use a graver name</i>. <i>Staunchly to +withstand her buffets and to enjoy with equanimity her favours +was the code of the virtuous of old</i>. <i>Our +fathers</i>, <i>it should seem</i>, <i>wondered and doubted how +they had merited their misfortunes</i>: <i>we</i>, <i>rather how +we have deserved our happiness</i>. <i>And we stand often +abashed and sometimes revolted</i>, <i>at those partialities of +fate by which we profit most</i>. <i>It was so with me on +that November night</i>: <i>I felt that our positions should be +changed</i>. <i>It was you</i>, <i>dear Symonds</i>, <i>who +should have gone upon that voyage and written this +account</i>. <i>With your rich stores of knowledge</i>, +<i>you could have remarked and understood a thousand things of +interest and beauty that escaped my ignorance</i>; <i>and the +brilliant colours of your style would have carried into a +thousand sickrooms the sea air and the strong sun of tropic +islands</i>. <i>It was otherwise decreed</i>. <i>But +suffer me at least to connect you</i>, <i>if only in name and +only in the fondness of imagination</i>, <i>with the voyage of +the</i> ‘Silver Ship.’</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR SYMONDS</span>,—I send you +this (November 11th), the morning of its completion. If I +ever write an account of this voyage, may I place this letter at +the beginning? It represents—I need not tell you, for +you too are an artist—a most genuine feeling, which kept me +long awake last night; and though perhaps a little elaborate, I +think it a good piece of writing. We are <i>in heaven +here</i>. Do not forget</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>Please keep this: I have no perfect copy.</p> +<p><i>Tautira</i>, <i>on the peninsula of Tahiti</i>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Thomas Archer</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Tautira</i>, <i>Island of +Tahiti</i> [<i>November</i> 1888].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR TOMARCHER</span>,—This is a +pretty state of things! seven o’clock and no word of +breakfast! And I was awake a good deal last night, for it +was full moon, and they had made a great fire of cocoa-nut husks +down by the sea, and as we have no blinds or shutters, this kept +my room very bright. And then the rats had a wedding or a +school-feast under my bed. And then I woke early, and I +have nothing to read except Virgil’s <i>Æneid</i>, +which is not good fun on an empty stomach, and a Latin +dictionary, which is good for naught, and by some humorous +accident, your dear papa’s article on Skerryvore. And +I read the whole of that, and very impudent it is, but you must +not tell your dear papa I said so, or it might come to a battle +in which you might lose either a dear papa or a valued +correspondent, or both, which would be prodigal. And still +no breakfast; so I said ‘Let’s write to +Tomarcher.’</p> +<p>This is a much better place for children than any I have +hitherto seen in these seas. The girls (and sometimes the +boys) play a very elaborate kind of hopscotch. The boys +play horses exactly as we do in Europe; and have very good fun on +stilts, trying to knock each other down, in which they do not +often succeed. The children of all ages go to church and +are allowed to do what they please, running about the aisles, +rolling balls, stealing mamma’s bonnet and publicly sitting +on it, and at last going to sleep in the middle of the +floor. I forgot to say that the whips to play horses, and +the balls to roll about the church—at least I never saw +them used elsewhere—grow ready made on trees; which is +rough on toy-shops. The whips are so good that I wanted to +play horses myself; but no such luck! my hair is grey, and I am a +great, big, ugly man. The balls are rather hard, but very +light and quite round. When you grow up and become +offensively rich, you can charter a ship in the port of London, +and have it come back to you entirely loaded with these balls; +when you could satisfy your mind as to their character, and give +them away when done with to your uncles and aunts. But what +I really wanted to tell you was this: besides the tree-top toys +(Hush-a-by, toy-shop, on the tree-top!), I have seen some real +<i>made</i> toys, the first hitherto observed in the South +Seas.</p> +<p>This was how. You are to imagine a four-wheeled gig; one +horse; in the front seat two Tahiti natives, in their Sunday +clothes, blue coat, white shirt, kilt (a little longer than the +Scotch) of a blue stuff with big white or yellow flowers, legs +and feet bare; in the back seat me and my wife, who is a friend +of yours; under our feet, plenty of lunch and things: among us a +great deal of fun in broken Tahitian, one of the natives, the +sub-chief of the village, being a great ally of mine. +Indeed we have exchanged names; so that he is now called Rui, the +nearest they can come to Louis, for they have no <i>l</i> and no +<i>s</i> in their language. Rui is six feet three in his +stockings, and a magnificent man. We all have straw hats, +for the sun is strong. We drive between the sea, which +makes a great noise, and the mountains; the road is cut through a +forest mostly of fruit trees, the very creepers, which take the +place of our ivy, heavy with a great and delicious fruit, bigger +than your head and far nicer, called Barbedine. Presently +we came to a house in a pretty garden, quite by itself, very +nicely kept, the doors and windows open, no one about, and no +noise but that of the sea. It looked like a house in a +fairy-tale, and just beyond we must ford a river, and there we +saw the inhabitants. Just in the mouth of the river, where +it met the sea waves, they were ducking and bathing and screaming +together like a covey of birds: seven or eight little naked brown +boys and girls as happy as the day was long; and on the banks of +the stream beside them, real toys—toy ships, full rigged, +and with their sails set, though they were lying in the dust on +their beam ends. And then I knew for sure they were all +children in a fairy-story, living alone together in that lonely +house with the only toys in all the island; and that I had myself +driven, in my four-wheeled gig, into a corner of the fairy-story, +and the question was, should I get out again? But it was +all right; I guess only one of the wheels of the gig had got into +the fairy-story; and the next jolt the whole thing vanished, and +we drove on in our sea-side forest as before, and I have the +honour to be Tomarcher’s valued correspondent, <span +class="smcap">Teriitepa</span>, which he was previously known +as</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Yacht</i> +‘<i>Casco</i>,’ <i>at Sea</i>, 14<i>th</i> +<i>January</i>, 1889.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—Twenty +days out from Papeete. Yes, sir, all that, and only (for a +guess) in 4° north or at the best 4° 30′, though +already the wind seems to smell a little of the North Pole. +My handwriting you must take as you get, for we are speeding +along through a nasty swell, and I can only keep my place at the +table by means of a foot against the divan, the unoccupied hand +meanwhile gripping the ink-bottle. As we begin (so very +slowly) to draw near to seven months of correspondence, we are +all in some fear; and I want to have letters written before I +shall be plunged into that boiling pot of disagreeables which I +constantly expect at Honolulu. What is needful can be added +there.</p> +<p>We were kept two months at Tautira in the house of my dear old +friend, Ori a Ori, till both the masts of this invaluable yacht +had been repaired. It was all for the best: Tautira being +the most beautiful spot, and its people the most amiable, I have +ever found. Besides which, the climate suited me to the +ground; I actually went sea-bathing almost every day, and in our +feasts (we are all huge eaters in Taiarapu) have been known to +apply four <a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +129</span>times for pig. And then again I got wonderful +materials for my book, collected songs and legends on the spot; +songs still sung in chorus by perhaps a hundred persons, not two +of whom can agree on their translation; legends, on which I have +seen half a dozen seniors sitting in conclave and debating what +came next. Once I went a day’s journey to the other +side of the island to Tati, the high chief of the +Tevas—<i>my</i> chief that is, for I am now a Teva and +Teriitera, at your service—to collect more and correct what +I had already. In the meanwhile I got on with my work, +almost finished the <i>Master of Ballantrae</i>, which contains +more human work than anything of mine but <i>Kidnapped</i>, and +wrote the half of another ballad, the <i>Song of Rahero</i>, on a +Taiarapu legend of my own clan, sir—not so much fire as the +<i>Feast of Famine</i>, but promising to be more even and +correct. But the best fortune of our stay at Tautira was my +knowledge of Ori himself, one of the finest creatures +extant. The day of our parting was a sad one. We +deduced from it a rule for travellers: not to stay two months in +one place—which is to cultivate regrets.</p> +<p>At last our contemptible ship was ready; to sea we went, bound +for Honolulu and the letter-bag, on Christmas Day; and from then +to now have experienced every sort of minor misfortune, squalls, +calms, contrary winds and seas, pertinacious rains, declining +stores, till we came almost to regard ourselves as in the case of +Vanderdecken. Three days ago our luck seemed to improve, we +struck a leading breeze, got creditably through the doldrums, and +just as we looked to have the N.E. trades and a straight run, the +rains and squalls and calms began again about midnight, and this +morning, though there is breeze enough to send us along, we are +beaten back by an obnoxious swell out of the north. Here is +a page of complaint, when a verse of thanksgiving had perhaps +been more in place. For all this time we must have been +skirting past dangerous weather, in the tail and circumference of +<a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +130</span>hurricanes, and getting only annoyance where we should +have had peril, and ill-humour instead of fear.</p> +<p>I wonder if I have managed to give you any news this time, or +whether the usual damn hangs over my letter? ‘The +midwife whispered, Be thou dull!’ or at least +inexplicit. Anyway I have tried my best, am exhausted with +the effort, and fall back into the land of generalities. I +cannot tell you how often we have planned our arrival at the +Monument: two nights ago, the 12th January, we had it all planned +out, arrived in the lights and whirl of Waterloo, hailed a +hansom, span up Waterloo Road, over the bridge, etc. etc., and +hailed the Monument gate in triumph and with indescribable +delight. My dear Custodian, I always think we are too +sparing of assurances: Cordelia is only to be excused by Regan +and Goneril in the same nursery; I wish to tell you that the +longer I live, the more dear do you become to me; nor does my +heart own any stronger sentiment. If the bloody schooner +didn’t send me flying in every sort of direction at the +same time, I would say better what I feel so much; but really, if +you were here, you would not be writing letters, I believe; and +even I, though of a more marine constitution, am much perturbed +by this bobbery and wish—O ye Gods, how I wish!—that +it was done, and we had arrived, and I had Pandora’s Box +(my mail bag) in hand, and was in the lively hope of something +eatable for dinner instead of salt horse, tinned mutton, duff +without any plums, and pie fruit, which now make up our whole +repertory. O Pandora’s Box! I wonder what you +will contain. As like as not you will contain but little +money: if that be so, we shall have to retire to ’Frisco in +the <i>Casco</i>, and thence by sea <i>via</i> Panama to +Southampton, where we should arrive in April. I would like +fine to see you on the tug: ten years older both of us than the +last time you came to welcome Fanny and me to England. If +we have money, however, we shall do a little differently: send +the <i>Casco</i> away from Honolulu empty of its high-born +lessees, <a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +131</span>for that voyage to ’Frisco is one long dead beat +in foul and at last in cold weather; stay awhile behind, follow +by steamer, cross the States by train, stay awhile in New York on +business, and arrive probably by the German Line in +Southampton. But all this is a question of money. We +shall have to lie very dark awhile to recruit our finances: what +comes from the book of the cruise, I do not want to touch until +the capital is repaid.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Honolulu</i>, <i>January</i> +1889.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BURLINGAME</span>,—Here +at last I have arrived. We could not get away from Tahiti +till Christmas Day, and then had thirty days of calms and +squalls, a deplorable passage. This has thrown me all out +of gear in every way. I plunge into business.</p> +<p>1. <i>The Master</i>: Herewith go three more +parts. You see he grows in balk; this making ten already, +and I am not yet sure if I can finish it in an eleventh; which +shall go to you <i>quam primum</i>—I hope by next mail.</p> +<p>2. <i>Illustrations to M</i>. I totally forgot to +try to write to Hole. It was just as well, for I find it +impossible to forecast with sufficient precision. You had +better throw off all this and let him have it at once. +<i>Please do</i>: <i>all</i>, <i>and at once</i>: <i>see +further</i>; and I should hope he would still be in time for the +later numbers. The three pictures I have received are so +truly good that I should bitterly regret having the volume +imperfectly equipped. They are the best illustrations I +have seen since I don’t know when.</p> +<p>3. <i>Money</i>. To-morrow the mail comes in, and +I hope it will bring me money either from you or home, but I will +add a word on that point.</p> +<p>4. My address will be Honolulu—no longer Yacht +<i>Casco</i>, which I am packing off—till probably +April.</p> +<p><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>5. As soon as I am through with <i>The +Master</i>, I shall finish the <i>Game of Bluff</i>—now +rechristened <i>The Wrong Box</i>. This I wish to sell, +cash down. It is of course copyright in the States; and I +offer it to you for five thousand dollars. Please reply on +this by return. Also please tell the typewriter who was so +good as to be amused by our follies that I am filled with +admiration for his piece of work.</p> +<p>6. <i>Master</i> again. Please see that I +haven’t the name of the Governor of New York wrong (1764 is +the date) in part ten. I have no book of reference to put +me right. Observe you now have up to August inclusive in +hand, so you should begin to feel happy.</p> +<p>Is this all? I wonder, and fear not. Henry the +Trader has not yet turned up: I hope he may to-morrow, when we +expect a mail. Not one word of business have I received +either from the States or England, nor anything in the shape of +coin; which leaves me in a fine uncertainty and quite penniless +on these islands. H.M. <a name="citation132"></a><a +href="#footnote132" class="citation">[132]</a> (who is a +gentleman of a courtly order and much tinctured with letters) is +very polite; I may possibly ask for the position of palace +doorkeeper. My voyage has been a singular mixture of good +and ill-fortune. As far as regards interest and material, +the fortune has been admirable; as far as regards time, money, +and impediments of all kinds, from squalls and calms to rotten +masts and sprung spars, simply detestable. I hope you will +be interested to hear of two volumes on the wing. The +cruise itself, you are to know, will make a big volume with +appendices; some of it will first appear as (what they call) +letters in some of M’Clure’s papers. I believe +the book when ready will have a fair measure of serious interest: +I have had great fortune in finding old songs and ballads and +stories, for instance, and have many singular instances of life +in the last few years among these islands.</p> +<p>The second volume is of ballads. You know +<i>Ticonderoga</i>. <a name="page133"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 133</span>I have written another: <i>The Feast +of Famine</i>, a Marquesan story. A third is half done: +<i>The Song of Rahero</i>, a genuine Tahitian legend. A +fourth dances before me. A Hawaiian fellow this, <i>The +Priest’s Drought</i>, or some such name. If, as I +half suspect, I get enough subjects out of the islands, +<i>Ticonderoga</i> shall be suppressed, and we’ll call the +volume <i>South Sea Ballads</i>. In health, spirits, +renewed interest in life, and, I do believe, refreshed capacity +for work, the cruise has proved a wise folly. Still +we’re not home, and (although the friend of a crowned head) +are penniless upon these (as one of my correspondents used to +call them) ‘lovely but <i>fatil</i> islands.’ +By the way, who wrote the <i>Lion of the Nile</i>? My dear +sir, that is Something Like. Overdone in bits, it has a +true thought and a true ring of language. Beg the anonymous +from me, to delete (when he shall republish) the two last verses, +and end on ‘the lion of the Nile.’ One Lampman +has a good sonnet on a ‘Winter Evening’ in, I think, +the same number: he seems ill named, but I am tempted to hope a +man is not always answerable for his name. <a +name="citation133"></a><a href="#footnote133" +class="citation">[133]</a> For instance, you would think +you knew mine. No such matter. It is—at your +service and Mr. Scribner’s and that of all of the +faithful—Teriitera (pray pronounce Tayree-Tayra) or +(<i>gallicé</i>) Téri-téra.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>More when the mail shall come.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p>I am an idiot. I want to be clear on one point. +Some of Hole’s drawings must of course be too late; and yet +they seem to me so excellent I would fain have the lot +complete. It is one thing for you to pay for drawings which +are to appear in that soul-swallowing machine, your magazine: +quite another if they are only to illustrate a volume. I +wish you to take a brisk (even a fiery) decision on the point; +and let Hole know. To resume <a name="page134"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 134</span>my desultory song, I desire you +would carry the same fire (hereinbefore suggested) into your +decision on the <i>Wrong Box</i>; for in my present state of +benighted ignorance as to my affairs for the last seven +months—I know not even whether my house or my +mother’s house have been let—I desire to see +something definite in front of me—outside the lot of palace +doorkeeper. I believe the said <i>Wrong Box</i> is a real +lark; in which, of course, I may be grievously deceived; but the +typewriter is with me. I may also be deceived as to the +numbers of <i>The Master</i> now going and already gone; but to +me they seem First Chop, sir, First Chop. I hope I shall +pull off that damned ending; but it still depresses me: this is +your doing, Mr. Burlingame: you would have it there and then, and +I fear it—I fear that ending.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Honolulu</i>, <i>February</i> +8<i>th</i>, 1889.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—Here we +are at Honolulu, and have dismissed the yacht, and lie here till +April anyway, in a fine state of haze, which I am yet in hopes +some letter of yours (still on the way) may dissipate. No +money, and not one word as to money! However, I have got +the yacht paid off in triumph, I think; and though we stay here +impignorate, it should not be for long, even if you bring us no +extra help from home. The cruise has been a great success, +both as to matter, fun, and health; and yet, Lord, man! +we’re pleased to be ashore! Yon was a very fine +voyage from Tahiti up here, but—the dry land’s a fine +place too, and we don’t mind squalls any longer, and eh, +man, that’s a great thing. Blow, blow, thou wintry +wind, thou hast done me no appreciable harm beyond a few grey +hairs! Altogether, this foolhardy venture is achieved; and +if I have but nine months of life and any kind of health, I shall +have both eaten my cake and got it back again with usury. +But, man, there have <a name="page135"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 135</span>been days when I felt guilty, and +thought I was in no position for the head of a house.</p> +<p>Your letter and accounts are doubtless at S. F., and will +reach me in course. My wife is no great shakes; she is the +one who has suffered most. My mother has had a Huge Old +Time; Lloyd is first chop; I so well that I do not know +myself—sea-bathing, if you please, and what is far more +dangerous, entertaining and being entertained by His Majesty +here, who is a very fine intelligent fellow, but O, Charles! what +a crop for the drink! He carries it, too, like a mountain +with a sparrow on its shoulders. We calculated five bottles +of champagne in three hours and a half (afternoon), and the +sovereign quite presentable, although perceptibly more dignified +at the end. . . .</p> +<p>The extraordinary health I enjoy and variety of interests I +find among these islands would tempt me to remain here; only for +Lloyd, who is not well placed in such countries for a permanency; +and a little for Colvin, to whom I feel I owe a sort of filial +duty. And these two considerations will no doubt bring me +back—to go to bed again—in England.—Yours ever +affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to R. A. M. Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Honolulu</i>, <i>Hawaiian +Islands</i>, <i>February</i> 1889.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BOB</span>,—My extremely +foolhardy venture is practically over. How foolhardy it was +I don’t think I realised. We had a very small +schooner, and, like most yachts, over-rigged and over-sparred, +and like many American yachts on a very dangerous sail +plan. The waters we sailed in are, of course, entirely +unlighted, and very badly charted; in the Dangerous Archipelago, +through which we were fools enough to go, we were perfectly in +ignorance of where we were for a whole night and half the next +day, and this in the midst of <a name="page136"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 136</span>invisible islands and rapid and +variable currents; and we were lucky when we found our +whereabouts at last. We have twice had all we wanted in the +way of squalls: once, as I came on deck, I found the green sea +over the cockpit coamings and running down the companion like a +brook to meet me; at that same moment the foresail sheet jammed +and the captain had no knife; this was the only occasion on the +cruise that ever I set a hand to a rope, but I worked like a +Trojan, judging the possibility of hæmorrhage better than +the certainty of drowning. Another time I saw a rather +singular thing: our whole ship’s company as pale as paper +from the captain to the cook; we had a black squall astern on the +port side and a white squall ahead to starboard; the complication +passed off innocuous, the black squall only fetching us with its +tail, and the white one slewing off somewhere else. Twice +we were a long while (days) in the close vicinity of hurricane +weather, but again luck prevailed, and we saw none of it. +These are dangers incident to these seas and small craft. +What was an amazement, and at the same time a powerful stroke of +luck, both our masts were rotten, and we found it out—I was +going to say in time, but it was stranger and luckier than +that. The head of the mainmast hung over so that hands were +afraid to go to the helm; and less than three weeks +before—I am not sure it was more than a fortnight—we +had been nearly twelve hours beating off the lee shore of Eimeo +(or Moorea, next island to Tahiti) in half a gale of wind with a +violent head sea: she would neither tack nor wear once, and had +to be boxed off with the mainsail—you can imagine what an +ungodly show of kites we carried—and yet the mast +stood. The very day after that, in the southern bight of +Tahiti, we had a near squeak, the wind suddenly coming calm; the +reefs were close in with, my eye! what a surf! The pilot +thought we were gone, and the captain had a boat cleared, when a +lucky squall came to our rescue. My wife, hearing the <a +name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 137</span>order given +about the boats, remarked to my mother, ‘Isn’t that +nice? We shall soon be ashore!’ Thus does the +female mind unconsciously skirt along the verge of +eternity. Our voyage up here was most +disastrous—calms, squalls, head sea, waterspouts of rain, +hurricane weather all about, and we in the midst of the hurricane +season, when even the hopeful builder and owner of the yacht had +pronounced these seas unfit for her. We ran out of food, +and were quite given up for lost in Honolulu: people had ceased +to speak to Belle <a name="citation137"></a><a +href="#footnote137" class="citation">[137]</a> about the +<i>Casco</i>, as a deadly subject.</p> +<p>But the perils of the deep were part of the programme; and +though I am very glad to be done with them for a while and +comfortably ashore, where a squall does not matter a snuff to any +one, I feel pretty sure I shall want to get to sea again ere +long. The dreadful risk I took was financial, and +double-headed. First, I had to sink a lot of money in the +cruise, and if I didn’t get health, how was I to get it +back? I have got health to a wonderful extent; and as I +have the most interesting matter for my book, bar accidents, I +ought to get all I have laid out and a profit. But, second +(what I own I never considered till too late), there was the +danger of collisions, of damages and heavy repairs, of +disablement, towing, and salvage; indeed, the cruise might have +turned round and cost me double. Nor will this danger be +quite over till I hear the yacht is in San Francisco; for though +I have shaken the dust of her deck from my feet, I fear (as a +point of law) she is still mine till she gets there.</p> +<p>From my point of view, up to now the cruise has been a +wonderful success. I never knew the world was so +amusing. On the last voyage we had grown so used to +sea-life that no one wearied, though it lasted a full month, +except Fanny, who is always ill. All the time our visits <a +name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 138</span>to the +islands have been more like dreams than realities: the people, +the life, the beachcombers, the old stories and songs I have +picked up, so interesting; the climate, the scenery, and (in some +places) the women, so beautiful. The women are handsomest +in Tahiti, the men in the Marquesas; both as fine types as can be +imagined. Lloyd reminds me, I have not told you one +characteristic incident of the cruise from a semi-naval point of +view. One night we were going ashore in Anaho Bay; the most +awful noise on deck; the breakers distinctly audible in the +cabin; and there I had to sit below, entertaining in my best +style a negroid native chieftain, much the worse for rum! +You can imagine the evening’s pleasure.</p> +<p>This naval report on cruising in the South Seas would be +incomplete without one other trait. On our voyage up here I +came one day into the dining-room, the hatch in the floor was +open, the ship’s boy was below with a baler, and two of the +hands were carrying buckets as for a fire; this meant that the +pumps had ceased working.</p> +<p>One stirring day was that in which we sighted Hawaii. It +blew fair, but very strong; we carried jib, foresail, and +mainsail, all single-reefed, and she carried her lee rail under +water and flew. The swell, the heaviest I have ever been +out in—I tried in vain to estimate the height, <i>at +least</i> fifteen feet—came tearing after us about a point +and a half off the wind. We had the best hand—old +Louis—at the wheel; and, really, he did nobly, and had +noble luck, for it never caught us once. At times it seemed +we must have it; Louis would look over his shoulder with the +queerest look and dive down his neck into his shoulders; and then +it missed us somehow, and only sprays came over our quarter, +turning the little outside lane of deck into a mill race as deep +as to the cockpit coamings. I never remember anything more +delightful and exciting. Pretty soon after we were lying +absolutely becalmed under the lee of Hawaii, of which we had been +warned; and the captain never confessed he had done it <a +name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 139</span>on purpose, +but when accused, he smiled. Really, I suppose he did quite +right, for we stood committed to a dangerous race, and to bring +her to the wind would have been rather a heart-sickening +manœuvre.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Marcel Schwob</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Honolulu</i>, <i>Sandwich +Islands</i>, <i>February</i> 8<i>th</i>, 1889.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR SIR</span>,—I thank +you—from the midst of such a flurry as you can imagine, +with seven months’ accumulated correspondence on my +table—for your two friendly and clever letters. Pray +write me again. I shall be home in May or June, and not +improbably shall come to Paris in the summer. Then we can +talk; or in the interval I may be able to write, which is to-day +out of the question. Pray take a word from a man of +crushing occupations, and count it as a volume. Your little +<i>conte</i> is delightful. Ah yes, you are right, I love +the eighteenth century; and so do you, and have not listened to +its voice in vain.—The Hunted One,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Honolulu</i>, 8<i>th</i> +<i>March</i> 1889.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—At last I +have the accounts: the Doer has done excellently, and in the +words of —, ‘I reciprocate every step of your +behaviour.’ . . I send a letter for Bob in your care, +as I don’t know his Liverpool address, by which (for he is +to show you part of it) you will see we have got out of this +adventure—or hope to have—with wonderful +fortune. I have the retrospective horrors on me when I +think of the liabilities I incurred; but, thank God, I think +I’m in port again, and I have <a name="page140"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 140</span>found one climate in which I can +enjoy life. Even Honolulu is too cold for me; but the south +isles were a heaven upon earth to a puir, catarrhal party like +Johns’one. We think, as Tahiti is too complete a +banishment, to try Madeira. It’s only a week from +England, good communications, and I suspect in climate and +scenery not unlike our dear islands; in people, alas! there can +be no comparison. But friends could go, and I could come in +summer, so I should not be quite cut off.</p> +<p>Lloyd and I have finished a story, <i>The Wrong Box</i>. +If it is not funny, I am sure I do not know what is. I have +split over writing it. Since I have been here, I have been +toiling like a galley slave: three numbers of <i>The Master</i> +to rewrite, five chapters of the <i>Wrong Box</i> to write and +rewrite, and about five hundred lines of a narrative poem to +write, rewrite, and re-rewrite. Now I have <i>The +Master</i> waiting me for its continuation, two numbers more; +when that’s done, I shall breathe. This spasm of +activity has been chequered with champagne parties: Happy and +Glorious, Hawaii Ponoi paua: kou moi—(Native Hawaiians, +dote upon your monarch!) Hawaiian God save the King. (In +addition to my other labours, I am learning the language with a +native moonshee.) Kalakaua is a terrible companion; a +bottle of fizz is like a glass of sherry to him, he thinks +nothing of five or six in an afternoon as a whet for +dinner. You should see a photograph of our party after an +afternoon with H. H. M.: my! what a crew!—Yours ever +affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Honolulu</i> [<i>March</i> +1889].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR JAMES</span>,—Yes—I +own up—I am untrue to friendship and (what is less, but +still considerable) to civilisation. I am not coming home +for another year. There it is, cold and bald, and now you +won’t believe in <a name="page141"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 141</span>me at all, and serve me right (says +you) and the devil take me. But look here, and judge me +tenderly. I have had more fun and pleasure of my life these +past months than ever before, and more health than any time in +ten long years. And even here in Honolulu I have withered +in the cold; and this precious deep is filled with islands, which +we may still visit; and though the sea is a deathful place, I +like to be there, and like squalls (when they are over); and to +draw near to a new island, I cannot say how much I like. In +short, I take another year of this sort of life, and mean to try +to work down among the poisoned arrows, and mean (if it may be) +to come back again when the thing is through, and converse with +Henry James as heretofore; and in the meanwhile issue directions +to H. J. to write to me once more. Let him address here at +Honolulu, for my views are vague; and if it is sent here it will +follow and find me, if I am to be found; and if I am not to be +found the man James will have done his duty, and we shall be at +the bottom of the sea, where no post-office clerk can be expected +to discover us, or languishing on a coral island, the philosophic +drudges of some barbarian potentate: perchance, of an American +Missionary. My wife has just sent to Mrs. Sitwell a +translation (<i>tant bien que mal</i>) of a letter I have had +from my chief friend in this part of the world: go and see her, +and get a hearing of it; it will do you good; it is a better +method of correspondence than even Henry James’s. <a +name="citation141"></a><a href="#footnote141" +class="citation">[141]</a> I <a name="page142"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 142</span>jest, but seriously it is a strange +thing for a tough, sick, middle-aged scrivener like R. L. S. to +receive a letter so conceived from a man fifty years old, a +leading politician, a crack orator, and the great wit of his +village: boldly say, ‘the highly popular M.P. of +Tautira.’ My nineteenth century strikes here, and +lies alongside of something beautiful and ancient. I think +the receipt of such a letter might humble, shall I say even +—? and for me, I would rather have received it than written +<i>Redgauntlet</i> or the <i>Sixth Æneid</i>. All +told, if my books have enabled or helped me to make this voyage, +to know Rui, and to have received such a letter, they have (in +the old prefatorial expression) not been writ in vain. It +would seem from this that I have been not so much humbled as +puffed up; but, I assure you, I have in fact been both. A +little of what that letter says is my own earning; not all, but +yet a little; and the little makes me proud, and all the rest +ashamed; and in the contrast, how much more beautiful altogether +is the ancient man than him of to-day!</p> +<p>Well, well, Henry James is pretty good, though he <i>is</i> of +the nineteenth century, and that glaringly. And to curry +favour with him, I wish I could be more explicit; but, indeed, I +am still of necessity extremely vague, and cannot tell what I am +to do, nor where I am to go for some while <a +name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 143</span>yet. +As soon as I am sure, you shall hear. All are fairly +well—the wife, your countrywoman, least of all; troubles +are not entirely wanting; but on the whole we prosper, and we are +all affectionately yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Honolulu</i>, <i>April</i> +2<i>nd</i>, 1889.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I am +beginning to be ashamed of writing on to you without the least +acknowledgment, like a tramp; but I do not care—I am +hardened; and whatever be the cause of your silence, I mean to +write till all is blue. I am outright ashamed of my news, +which is that we are not coming home for another year. I +cannot but hope it may continue the vast improvement of my +health: I think it good for Fanny and Lloyd; and we have all a +taste for this wandering and dangerous life. My mother I +send home, to my relief, as this part of our cruise will be (if +we can carry it out) rather difficult in places. Here is +the idea: about the middle of June (unless the Boston Board +objects) we sail from Honolulu in the missionary ship +(barquentine auxiliary steamer) <i>Morning Star</i>: she takes us +through the Gilberts and Marshalls, and drops us (this is my +great idea) on Ponape, one of the volcanic islands of the +Carolines. Here we stay marooned among a doubtful +population, with a Spanish vice-governor and five native kings, +and a sprinkling of missionaries all at loggerheads, on the +chance of fetching a passage to Sydney in a trader, a labour +ship, or (maybe, but this appears too bright) a ship of +war. If we can’t get the <i>Morning Star</i> (and the +Board has many reasons that I can see for refusing its +permission) I mean to try to fetch Fiji, hire a schooner there, +do the Fijis and Friendlies, hit the course of the +<i>Richmond</i> at Tonga Tabu, make back by Tahiti, and so to S. +F., and home: perhaps in June 1890. For the latter part of +the cruise will likely be the same in <a name="page144"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 144</span>either case. You can see for +yourself how much variety and adventure this promises, and that +it is not devoid of danger at the best; but if we can pull it off +in safety, gives me a fine book of travel, and Lloyd a fine +lecture and diorama, which should vastly better our finances.</p> +<p>I feel as if I were untrue to friendship; believe me, Colvin, +when I look forward to this absence of another year, my +conscience sinks at thought of the Monument; but I think you will +pardon me if you consider how much this tropical weather mends my +health. Remember me as I was at home, and think of me +sea-bathing and walking about, as jolly as a sandboy: you will +own the temptation is strong; and as the scheme, bar fatal +accidents, is bound to pay into the bargain, sooner or later, it +seems it would be madness to come home now, with an imperfect +book, no illustrations to speak of, no diorama, and perhaps fall +sick again by autumn. I do not think I delude myself when I +say the tendency to catarrh has visibly diminished.</p> +<p>It is a singular tiring that as I was packing up old papers +ere I left Skerryvore, I came on the prophecies of a drunken +Highland sibyl, when I was seventeen. She said I was to be +very happy, to visit America, and <i>to be much upon the +sea</i>. It seems as if it were coming true with a +vengeance. Also, do you remember my strong, old, rooted +belief that I shall die by drowning? I don’t want +that to come true, though it is an easy death; but it occurs to +me oddly, with these long chances in front. I cannot say +why I like the sea; no man is more cynically and constantly alive +to its perils; I regard it as the highest form of gambling; and +yet I love the sea as much as I hate gambling. Fine, clean +emotions; a world all and always beautiful; air better than wine; +interest unflagging; there is upon the whole no better +life.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +145</span><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Honolulu</i>, <i>April</i> +1889.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BURLINGAME</span>,—This +is to announce the most prodigious change of programme. I +have seen so much of the South Seas that I desire to see more, +and I get so much health here that I dread a return to our vile +climates. I have applied accordingly to the missionary folk +to let me go round in the <i>Morning Star</i>; and if the Boston +Board should refuse, I shall get somehow to Fiji, hire a trading +schooner, and see the Fijis and Friendlies and Samoa. He +would be a South Seayer, Mr. Burlingame. Of course, if I go +in the <i>Morning Star</i>, I see all the eastern (or western?) +islands.</p> +<p>Before I sail, I shall make out to let you have the last of +<i>The Master</i>: though I tell you it sticks!—and I hope +to have had some proofs forbye, of the verses anyway. And +now to business.</p> +<p>I want (if you can find them) in the British sixpenny edition, +if not, in some equally compact and portable shape—Seaside +Library, for instance—the Waverley Novels entire, or as +entire as you can get ’em, and the following of Marryat: +<i>Phantom Ship</i>, <i>Peter Simple</i>, <i>Percival Keene</i>, +<i>Privateersman</i>, <i>Children of the New Forest</i>, <i>Frank +Mildmay</i>, <i>Newton Forster</i>, <i>Dog Fiend</i> +(<i>Snarleyyow</i>). Also <i>Midshipman Easy</i>, +<i>Kingsburn</i>, Carlyle’s <i>French Revolution</i>, +Motley’s <i>Dutch Republic</i>, Lang’s <i>Letters on +Literature</i>, a complete set of my works, <i>Jenkin</i>, in +duplicate; also <i>Familiar Studies</i>, ditto.</p> +<p>I have to thank you for the accounts, which are satisfactory +indeed, and for the cheque for $1000. Another account will +have come and gone before I see you. I hope it will be +equally roseate in colour. I am quite worked out, and this +cursed end of <i>The Master</i> hangs over me like the arm of the +gallows; but it is always darkest before dawn, and no doubt the +clouds will soon rise; but it is a <a name="page146"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 146</span>difficult thing to write, above all +in Mackellarese; and I cannot yet see my way clear. If I +pull this off, <i>The Master</i> will be a pretty good novel or I +am the more deceived; and even if I don’t pull it off, +it’ll still have some stuff in it.</p> +<p>We shall remain here until the middle of June anyway; but my +mother leaves for Europe early in May. Hence our mail +should continue to come here; but not hers. I will let you +know my next address, which will probably be Sydney. If we +get on the <i>Morning Star</i>, I propose at present to get +marooned on Ponape, and take my chance of getting a passage to +Australia. It will leave times and seasons mighty vague, +and the cruise is risky; but I shall know something of the South +Seas when it is done, or else the South Seas will contain all +there is of me. It should give me a fine book of travels, +anyway.</p> +<p>Low will probably come and ask some dollars of you. Pray +let him have them, they are for outfit. O, another complete +set of my books should go to Captain A. H. Otis, care of Dr. +Merritt, Yacht <i>Casco</i>, Oakland, Cal. In haste,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Adelaide Boodle</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Honolulu</i>, <i>April</i> +6<i>th</i>, 1889.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MISS +BOODLE</span>,—Nobody writes a better letter than my +Gamekeeper: so gay, so pleasant, so engagingly particular, +answering (by some delicate instinct) all the questions she +suggests. It is a shame you should get such a poor return +as I can make, from a mind essentially and originally incapable +of the art epistolary. I would let the paper-cutter take my +place; but I am sorry to say the little wooden seaman did after +the manner of seamen, and deserted in the Societies. The +place he seems to have stayed at—seems, for his absence was +not observed till we were near the Equator—was Tautira, +and, I assure you, he displayed good taste, Tautira being as +‘nigh hand heaven’ as a paper-cutter or anybody has a +right to expect.</p> +<p><a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 147</span>I +think all our friends will be very angry with us, and I give the +grounds of their probable displeasure bluntly—we are not +coming home for another year. My mother returns next +month. Fanny, Lloyd, and I push on again among the islands +on a trading schooner, the <i>Equator</i>—first for the +Gilbert group, which we shall have an opportunity to explore +thoroughly; then, if occasion serve, to the Marshalls and +Carolines; and if occasion (or money) fail, to Samoa, and back to +Tahiti. I own we are deserters, but we have excuses. +You cannot conceive how these climates agree with the wretched +house-plant of Skerryvore: he wonders to find himself +sea-bathing, and cutting about the world loose, like a grown-up +person. They agree with Fanny too, who does not suffer from +her rheumatism, and with Lloyd also. And the interest of +the islands is endless; and the sea, though I own it is a +fearsome place, is very delightful. We had applied for +places in the American missionary ship, the <i>Morning Star</i>, +but this trading schooner is a far preferable idea, giving us +more time and a thousandfold more liberty; so we determined to +cut off the missionaries with a shilling.</p> +<p>The Sandwich Islands do not interest us very much; we live +here, oppressed with civilisation, and look for good things in +the future. But it would surprise you if you came out +to-night from Honolulu (all shining with electric lights, and all +in a bustle from the arrival of the mail, which is to carry you +these lines) and crossed the long wooden causeway along the +beach, and came out on the road through Kapiolani park, and +seeing a gate in the palings, with a tub of gold-fish by the +wayside, entered casually in. The buildings stand in three +groups by the edge of the beach, where an angry little spitfire +sea continually spirts and thrashes with impotent irascibility, +the big seas breaking further out upon the reef. The first +is a small house, with a very large summer parlour, or +<i>lanai</i>, as they call it here, roofed, but practically +open. There you will find the lamps burning and the family +<a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 148</span>sitting +about the table, dinner just done: my mother, my wife, Lloyd, +Belle, my wife’s daughter, Austin her child, and to-night +(by way of rarity) a guest. All about the walls our South +Sea curiosities, war clubs, idols, pearl shells, stone axes, +etc.; and the walls are only a small part of a lanai, the rest +being glazed or latticed windows, or mere open space. You +will see there no sign of the Squire, however; and being a person +of a humane disposition, you will only glance in over the balcony +railing at the merry-makers in the summer parlour, and proceed +further afield after the Exile. You look round, there is +beautiful green turf, many trees of an outlandish sort that drop +thorns—look out if your feet are bare; but I beg your +pardon, you have not been long enough in the South Seas—and +many oleanders in full flower. The next group of buildings +is ramshackle, and quite dark; you make out a coach-house door, +and look in—only some cocoanuts; you try round to the left +and come to the sea front, where Venus and the moon are making +luminous tracks on the water, and a great swell rolls and shines +on the outer reef; and here is another door—all these +places open from the outside—and you go in, and find +photography, tubs of water, negatives steeping, a tap, and a +chair and an inkbottle, where my wife is supposed to write; round +a little further, a third door, entering which you find a picture +upon the easel and a table sticky with paints; a fourth door +admits you to a sort of court, where there is a hen +sitting—I believe on a fallacious egg. No sign of the +Squire in all this. But right opposite the studio door you +have observed a third little house, from whose open door +lamplight streams and makes hay of the strong moonlight +shadows. You had supposed it made no part of the grounds, +for a fence runs round it lined with oleander; but as the Squire +is nowhere else, is it not just possible he may be here? It +is a grim little wooden shanty; cobwebs bedeck it; friendly mice +inhabit its recesses; the mailed cockroach walks upon the wall; +so <a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 149</span>also, +I regret to say, the scorpion. Herein are two pallet beds, +two mosquito curtains, strung to the pitch-boards of the roof, +two tables laden with books and manuscripts, three chairs, and, +in one of the beds, the Squire busy writing to yourself, as it +chances, and just at this moment somewhat bitten by +mosquitoes. He has just set fire to the insect powder, and +will be all right in no time; but just now he contemplates large +white blisters, and would like to scratch them, but knows +better. The house is not bare; it has been inhabited by +Kanakas, and—you know what children are!—the bare +wood walls are pasted over with pages from the <i>Graphic</i>, +<i>Harper’s Weekly</i>, etc. The floor is matted, and +I am bound to say the matting is filthy. There are two +windows and two doors, one of which is condemned; on the panels +of that last a sheet of paper is pinned up, and covered with +writing. I cull a few plums:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘A duck-hammock for each person.</p> +<p>A patent organ like the commandant’s at Taiohae.</p> +<p>Cheap and bad cigars for presents.</p> +<p>Revolvers.</p> +<p>Permanganate of potass.</p> +<p>Liniment for the head and sulphur.</p> +<p>Fine tooth-comb.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>What do you think this is? Simply life in the South Seas +foreshortened. These are a few of our desiderata for the +next trip, which we jot down as they occur.</p> +<p>There, I have really done my best and tried to send something +like a letter—one letter in return for all your +dozens. Pray remember us all to yourself, Mrs. Boodle, and +the rest of your house. I do hope your mother will be +better when this comes. I shall write and give you a new +address when I have made up my mind as to the most probable, and +I do beg you will continue to write from time to time and give us +airs from home. To-morrow—think of it—I must be +off by a quarter to eight to drive in to the palace and breakfast +with his Hawaiian <a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +150</span>Majesty at 8.30: I shall be dead indeed. Please +give my news to Scott, I trust he is better; give him my warm +regards. To you we all send all kinds of things, and I am +the absentee Squire,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Honolulu</i>, <i>April</i> +1889.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—As usual, +your letter is as good as a cordial, and I thank you for it, and +all your care, kindness, and generous and thoughtful friendship, +from my heart. I was truly glad to hear a word of Colvin, +whose long silence has terrified me; and glad to hear that you +condoned the notion of my staying longer in the South Seas, for I +have decided in that sense. The first idea was to go in the +<i>Morning Star</i>, missionary ship; but now I have found a +trading schooner, the <i>Equator</i>, which is to call for me +here early in June and carry us through the Gilberts. What +will happen then, the Lord knows. My mother does not +accompany us: she leaves here for home early in May, and you will +hear of us from her; but not, I imagine, anything more +definite. We shall get dumped on Butaritari, and whether we +manage to go on to the Marshalls and Carolines, or whether we +fall back on Samoa, Heaven must decide; but I mean to fetch back +into the course of the <i>Richmond</i>—(to think you +don’t know what the <i>Richmond</i> is!—the steamer +of the Eastern South Seas, joining New Zealand, Tongatabu, the +Samoas, Taheite, and Rarotonga, and carrying by last advices +sheep in the saloon!)—into the course of the +<i>Richmond</i> and make Taheite again on the home track. +Would I like to see the <i>Scots Observer</i>? +Wouldn’t I not? But whaur? I’m direckit +at space. They have nae post offishes at the Gilberts, and +as for the Car’lines! Ye see, Mr. Baxter, we’re +no just in the punkshewal <i>centre</i> o’ +civ’lisation. But pile them up for me, and when +I’ve <a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +151</span>decided on an address, I’ll let you ken, and +ye’ll can send them stavin’ after me.—Ever your +affectionate,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Honolulu</i>, 10<i>th</i> +<i>May</i> 1889.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—I am +appalled to gather from your last just to hand that you have felt +so much concern about the letter. Pray dismiss it from your +mind. But I think you scarce appreciate how disagreeable it +is to have your private affairs and private unguarded expressions +getting into print. It would soon sicken any one of writing +letters. I have no doubt that letter was very wisely +selected, but it just shows how things crop up. There was a +raging jealousy between the two yachts; our captain was nearly in +a fight over it. However, no more; and whatever you think, +my dear fellow, do not suppose me angry with you or —; +although I was <i>annoyed at the circumstance</i>—a very +different thing. But it is difficult to conduct life by +letter, and I continually feel I may be drifting into some matter +of offence, in which my heart takes no part.</p> +<p>I must now turn to a point of business. This new cruise +of ours is somewhat venturesome; and I think it needful to warn +you not to be in a hurry to suppose us dead. In these +ill-charted seas, it is quite on the cards we might be cast on +some unvisited, or very rarely visited, island; that there we +might lie for a long time, even years, unheard of; and yet turn +up smiling at the hinder end. So do not let me be +‘rowpit’ till you get some certainty we have gone to +Davie Jones in a squall, or graced the feast of some barbarian in +the character of Long Pig.</p> +<p><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 152</span>I +have just been a week away alone on the lee coast of Hawaii, the +only white creature in many miles, riding five and a half hours +one day, living with a native, seeing four lepers shipped off to +Molokai, hearing native causes, and giving my opinion as +<i>amicus curiæ</i> as to the interpretation of a statute +in English; a lovely week among God’s best—at least +God’s sweetest works—Polynesians. It has +bettered me greatly. If I could only stay there the time +that remains, I could get my work done and be happy; but the care +of my family keeps me in vile Honolulu, where I am always out of +sorts, amidst heat and cold and cesspools and beastly +<i>haoles</i>. <a name="citation152"></a><a href="#footnote152" +class="citation">[152]</a> What is a haole? You are +one; and so, I am sorry to say, am I. After so long a dose +of whites, it was a blessing to get among Polynesians again even +for a week.</p> +<p>Well, Charles, there are waur haoles than yoursel’, +I’ll say that for ye; and trust before I sail I shall get +another letter with more about yourself.—Ever your +affectionate friend</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Honolulu</i>, (<i>about</i>) +20<i>th</i> <i>May</i> ’89.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—. . . The +goods have come; many daughters have done virtuously, but thou +excellest them all.—I have at length finished <i>The +Master</i>; it has been a sore cross to me; but now he is buried, +his body’s under hatches,—his soul, if there is any +hell to go to, gone to hell; and I forgive him: it is harder to +forgive Burlingame for having induced me to begin the +publication, or myself for suffering the induction.—Yes, I +think Hole has done finely; it will be one of the most adequately +illustrated books of <a name="page153"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 153</span>our generation; he gets the note, he +tells the story—<i>my</i> story: I know only one +failure—the Master standing on the beach.—You must +have a letter for me at Sydney—till further notice. +Remember me to Mrs. Will. H., the godlike sculptor, and any of +the faithful. If you want to cease to be a republican, see +my little Kaiulani, as she goes through—but she is gone +already. You will die a red, I wear the colours of that +little royal maiden, <i>Nous allons chanter à la +ronde</i>, <i>si vous voulez</i>! only she is not blonde by +several chalks, though she is but a half-blood, and the wrong +half Edinburgh Scots like mysel’. But, O Low, I love +the Polynesian: this civilisation of ours is a dingy, +ungentlemanly business; it drops out too much of man, and too +much of that the very beauty of the poor beast: who has his +beauties in spite of Zola and Co. As usual, here is a whole +letter with no news: I am a bloodless, inhuman dog; and no doubt +Zola is a better correspondent.—Long live your fine old +English admiral—yours, I mean—the U.S.A. one at +Samoa; I wept tears and loved myself and mankind when I read of +him: he is not too much civilised. And there was Gordon, +too; and there are others, beyond question. But if you +could live, the only white folk, in a Polynesian village; and +drink that warm, light <i>vin du pays</i> of human affection, and +enjoy that simple dignity of all about you—I will not gush, +for I am now in my fortieth year, which seems highly unjust, but +there it is, Mr. Low, and the Lord enlighten your +affectionate</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. R. L. Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Kalawao</i>, <i>Molokai</i> +[<i>May</i> 1889].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR FANNY</span>,—I had a lovely +sail up. Captain Cameron and Mr. Gilfillan, both born in +the States, yet the first still <a name="page154"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 154</span>with a strong Highland, and the +second still with a strong Lowland accent, were good company; the +night was warm, the victuals plain but good. Mr. Gilfillan +gave me his berth, and I slept well, though I heard the sisters +sick in the next stateroom, poor souls. Heavy rolling woke +me in the morning; I turned in all standing, so went right on the +upper deck. The day was on the peep out of a low morning +bank, and we were wallowing along under stupendous cliffs. +As the lights brightened, we could see certain abutments and +buttresses on their front where wood clustered and grass grew +brightly. But the whole brow seemed quite impassable, and +my heart sank at the sight. Two thousand feet of rock +making 19° (the Captain guesses) seemed quite beyond my +powers. However, I had come so far; and, to tell you the +truth, I was so cowed with fear and disgust that I dared not go +back on the adventure in the interests of my own +self-respect. Presently we came up with the leper +promontory: lowland, quite bare and bleak and harsh, a little +town of wooden houses, two churches, a landing-stair, all +unsightly, sour, northerly, lying athwart the sunrise, with the +great wall of the pali cutting the world out on the south. +Our lepers were sent on the first boat, about a dozen, one poor +child very horrid, one white man, leaving a large grown family +behind him in Honolulu, and then into the second stepped the +sisters and myself. I do not know how it would have been +with me had the sisters not been there. My horror of the +horrible is about my weakest point; but the moral loveliness at +my elbow blotted all else out; and when I found that one of them +was crying, poor soul, quietly under her veil, I cried a little +myself; then I felt as right as a trivet, only a little crushed +to be there so uselessly. I thought it was a sin and a +shame she should feel unhappy; I turned round to her, and said +something like this: ‘Ladies, God Himself is here to give +you welcome. I’m sure it is good for me to be beside +you; I hope it will be blessed to me; I thank you for <a +name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>myself and +the good you do me.’ It seemed to cheer her up; but +indeed I had scarce said it when we were at the landing-stairs, +and there was a great crowd, hundreds of (God save us!) pantomime +masks in poor human flesh, waiting to receive the sisters and the +new patients.</p> +<p>Every hand was offered: I had gloves, but I had made up my +mind on the boat’s voyage <i>not</i> to give my hand; that +seemed less offensive than the gloves. So the sisters and I +went up among that crew, and presently I got aside (for I felt I +had no business there) and set off on foot across the promontory, +carrying my wrap and the camera. All horror was quite gone +from me: to see these dread creatures smile and look happy was +beautiful. On my way through Kalaupapa I was exchanging +cheerful <i>alohas</i> with the patients coming galloping over on +their horses; I was stopping to gossip at house-doors; I was +happy, only ashamed of myself that I was here for no good. +One woman was pretty, and spoke good English, and was infinitely +engaging and (in the old phrase) towardly; she thought I was the +new white patient; and when she found I was only a visitor, a +curious change came in her face and voice—the only sad +thing, morally sad, I mean—that I met that morning. +But for all that, they tell me none want to leave. Beyond +Kalaupapa the houses became rare; dry stone dykes, grassy, stony +land, one sick pandanus; a dreary country; from overhead in the +little clinging wood shogs of the pali chirruping of birds fell; +the low sun was right in my face; the trade blew pure and cool +and delicious; I felt as right as ninepence, and stopped and +chatted with the patients whom I still met on their horses, with +not the least disgust. About half-way over, I met the +superintendent (a leper) with a horse for me, and O, wasn’t +I glad! But the horse was one of those curious, dogged, +cranky brutes that always dully want to go somewhere else, and my +traffic with him completed my crushing fatigue. I got to +the guest-house, an empty house with several rooms, kitchen, <a +name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>bath, +etc. There was no one there, and I let the horse go loose +in the garden, lay down on the bed, and fell asleep.</p> +<p>Dr. Swift woke me and gave me breakfast, then I came back and +slept again while he was at the dispensary, and he woke me for +dinner; and I came back and slept again, and he woke me about six +for supper; and then in about an hour I felt tired again, and +came up to my solitary guest-house, played the flageolet, and am +now writing to you. As yet, you see, I have seen nothing of +the settlement, and my crushing fatigue (though I believe that +was moral and a measure of my cowardice) and the doctor’s +opinion make me think the pali hopeless. ‘You +don’t look a strong man,’ said the doctor; ‘but +are you sound?’ I told him the truth; then he said it +was out of the question, and if I were to get up at all, I must +be carried up. But, as it seems, men as well as horses +continually fall on this ascent: the doctor goes up with a change +of clothes—it is plain that to be carried would in itself +be very fatiguing to both mind and body; and I should then be at +the beginning of thirteen miles of mountain road to be ridden +against time. How should I come through? I hope you +will think me right in my decision: I mean to stay, and shall not +be back in Honolulu till Saturday, June first. You must all +do the best you can to make ready.</p> +<p>Dr. Swift has a wife and an infant son, beginning to toddle +and run, and they live here as composed as brick and +mortar—at least the wife does, a Kentucky German, a fine +enough creature, I believe, who was quite amazed at the sisters +shedding tears! How strange is mankind! Gilfillan +too, a good fellow I think, and far from a stupid, kept up his +hard Lowland Scottish talk in the boat while the sister was +covering her face; but I believe he knew, and did it (partly) in +embarrassment, and part perhaps in mistaken kindness. And +that was one reason, too, why I made my speech to them. +Partly, too, I did it, because I was ashamed to do so, and +remembered one of my <a name="page157"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 157</span>golden rules, ‘When you are +ashamed to speak, speak up at once.’ But, mind you, +that rule is only golden with strangers; with your own folks, +there are other considerations. This is a strange place to +be in. A bell has been sounded at intervals while I wrote, +now all is still but a musical humming of the sea, not unlike the +sound of telegraph wires; the night is quite cool and pitch dark, +with a small fine rain; one light over in the leper settlement, +one cricket whistling in the garden, my lamp here by my bedside, +and my pen cheeping between my inky fingers.</p> +<p>Next day, lovely morning, slept all night, 80° in the +shade, strong, sweet Anaho trade-wind.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Louis</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Honolulu</i>, <i>June</i> +1889.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—I am just +home after twelve days journey to Molokai, seven of them at the +leper settlement, where I can only say that the sight of so much +courage, cheerfulness, and devotion strung me too high to mind +the infinite pity and horror of the sights. I used to ride +over from Kalawao to Kalaupapa (about three miles across the +promontory, the cliff-wall, ivied with forest and yet +inaccessible from steepness, on my left), go to the +Sisters’ home, which is a miracle of neatness, play a game +of croquet with seven leper girls (90° in the shade), got a +little old-maid meal served me by the Sisters, and ride home +again, tired enough, but not too tired. The girls have all +dolls, and love dressing them. You who know so many ladies +delicately clad, and they who know so many dressmakers, please +make it known it would be an acceptable gift to send scraps for +doll dressmaking to the Reverend Sister Maryanne, Bishop Home, +Kalaupapa, Molokai, Hawaiian Islands.</p> +<p>I have seen sights that cannot be told, and heard stories <a +name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 158</span>that cannot +be repeated: yet I never admired my poor race so much, nor +(strange as it may seem) loved life more than in the +settlement. A horror of moral beauty broods over the place: +that’s like bad Victor Hugo, but it is the only way I can +express the sense that lived with me all these days. And +this even though it was in great part Catholic, and my sympathies +flew never with so much difficulty as towards Catholic +virtues. The pass-book kept with heaven stirs me to anger +and laughter. One of the sisters calls the place ‘the +ticket office to heaven.’ Well, what is the +odds? They do their darg and do it with kindness and +efficiency incredible; and we must take folk’s virtues as +we find them, and love the better part. Of old Damien, +whose weaknesses and worse perhaps I heard fully, I think only +the more. It was a European peasant: dirty, bigoted, +untruthful, unwise, tricky, but superb with generosity, residual +candour and fundamental good-humour: convince him he had done +wrong (it might take hours of insult) and he would undo what he +had done and like his corrector better. A man, with all the +grime and paltriness of mankind, but a saint and hero all the +more for that. The place as regards scenery is grand, +gloomy, and bleak. Mighty mountain walls descending sheer +along the whole face of the island into a sea unusually deep; the +front of the mountain ivied and furred with clinging forest, one +viridescent cliff: about half-way from east to west, the low, +bare, stony promontory edged in between the cliff and the ocean; +the two little towns (Kalawao and Kalaupapa) seated on either +side of it, as bare almost as bathing machines upon a beach; and +the population—gorgons and chimaeras dire. All this +tear of the nerves I bore admirably; and the day after I got +away, rode twenty miles along the opposite coast and up into the +mountains: they call it twenty, I am doubtful of the figures: I +should guess it nearer twelve; but let me take credit for what +residents allege; and I was riding again the day after, so I need +<a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 159</span>say no +more about health. Honolulu does not agree with me at all: +I am always out of sorts there, with slight headache, blood to +the head, etc. I had a good deal of work to do and did it +with miserable difficulty; and yet all the time I have been +gaining strength, as you see, which is highly encouraging. +By the time I am done with this cruise I shall have the material +for a very singular book of travels: names of strange stories and +characters, cannibals, pirates, ancient legends, old Polynesian +poetry,—never was so generous a farrago. I am going +down now to get the story of a shipwrecked family, who were +fifteen months on an island with a murderer: there is a +specimen. The Pacific is a strange place; the nineteenth +century only exists there in spots: all round, it is a no +man’s land of the ages, a stir-about of epochs and races, +barbarisms and civilisations, virtues and crimes.</p> +<p>It is good of you to let me stay longer, but if I had known +how ill you were, I should be now on my way home. I had +chartered my schooner and made all arrangements before (at last) +we got definite news. I feel highly guilty; I should be +back to insult and worry you a little. Our address till +further notice is to be c/o R. Towns and Co., Sydney. That +is final: I only got the arrangement made yesterday; but you may +now publish it abroad.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to James Payn</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Honolulu</i>, <i>H.I.</i>, +<i>June</i> 13<i>th</i>, 1889.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR JAMES PAYN</span>,—I get +sad news of you here at my offsetting for further voyages: I wish +I could say what I feel. Sure there was never any man less +deserved this calamity; for I have heard you speak time and +again, <a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +160</span>and I remember nothing that was unkind, nothing that +was untrue, nothing that was not helpful, from your lips. +It is the ill-talkers that should hear no more. God knows, +I know no word of consolation; but I do feel your trouble. +You are the more open to letters now; let me talk to you for two +pages. I have nothing but happiness to tell; and you may +bless God you are a man so sound-hearted that (even in the +freshness of your calamity) I can come to you with my own good +fortune unashamed and secure of sympathy. It is a good +thing to be a good man, whether deaf or whether dumb; and of all +our fellow-craftsmen (whom yet they count a jealous race), I +never knew one but gave you the name of honesty and kindness: +come to think of it gravely, this is better than the finest +hearing. We are all on the march to deafness, blindness, +and all conceivable and fatal disabilities; we shall not all get +there with a report so good. My good news is a health +astonishingly reinstated. This climate; these voyagings; +these landfalls at dawn; new islands peaking from the morning +bank; new forested harbours; new passing alarms of squalls and +surf; new interests of gentle natives,—the whole tale of my +life is better to me than any poem.</p> +<p>I am fresh just now from the leper settlement of Molokai, +playing croquet with seven leper girls, sitting and yarning with +old, blind, leper beachcombers in the hospital, sickened with the +spectacle of abhorrent suffering and deformation amongst the +patients, touched to the heart by the sight of lovely and +effective virtues in their helpers: no stranger time have I ever +had, nor any so moving. I do not think it a little thing to +be deaf, God knows, and God defend me from the same!—but to +be a leper, of one of the self-condemned, how much more awful! +and yet there’s a way there also. ‘There are +Molokais everywhere,’ said Mr. Dutton, Father +Damien’s dresser; you are but new landed in yours; and my +dear and kind adviser, I wish you, with all my soul, that +patience and courage which you will require. Think of me +meanwhile <a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +161</span>on a trading schooner, bound for the Gilbert Islands, +thereafter for the Marshalls, with a diet of fish and cocoanut +before me; bound on a cruise of—well, of investigation to +what islands we can reach, and to get (some day or other) to +Sydney, where a letter addressed to the care of R. Towns & +Co. will find me sooner or later; and if it contain any good +news, whether of your welfare or the courage with which you bear +the contrary, will do me good.—Yours affectionately +(although so near a stranger),</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Schooner</i> +‘<i>Equator</i>,’ <i>Apaiang Lagoon</i>, +<i>August</i> 22<i>nd</i>, 1889.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—The +missionary ship is outside the reef trying (vainly) to get in; so +I may have a chance to get a line off. I am glad to say I +shall be home by June <a name="page162"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 162</span>next for the summer, or we shall +know the reason why. For God’s sake be well and jolly +for the meeting. I shall be, I believe, a different +character from what you have seen this long while. This +cruise is up to now a huge success, being interesting, pleasant, +and profitable. The beachcomber is perhaps the most +interesting character here; the natives are very different, on +the whole, from Polynesians: they are moral, stand-offish (for +good reasons), and protected by a dark tongue. It is +delightful to meet the few Hawaiians (mostly missionaries) that +are dotted about, with their Italian <i>brio</i> and their ready +friendliness. The whites are a strange lot, many of them +good, kind, pleasant fellows; others quite the lowest I have ever +seen even in the slums of cities. I wish I had time to +narrate to you the doings and character of three white murderers +(more or less proven) I have met. One, the only undoubted +assassin of the lot, quite gained my affection in his big home +out of a wreck, with his New Hebrides wife in her savage turban +of hair and yet a perfect lady, and his three adorable little +girls in Rob Roy Macgregor dresses, dancing to the hand organ, +performing circus on the floor with startling effects of nudity, +and curling up together on a mat to sleep, three sizes, three +attitudes, three Rob Roy dresses, and six little clenched fists: +the murderer meanwhile brooding and gloating over his chicks, +till your whole heart went out to him; and yet his crime on the +face of it was dark: disembowelling, in his own house, an old man +of seventy, and him drunk.</p> +<p>It is lunch-time, I see, and I must close up with my warmest +love to you. I wish you were here to sit upon me when +required. Ah! if you were but a good sailor! I will +never leave the sea, I think; it is only there that a Briton +lives: my poor grandfather, it is from him I inherit the taste, I +fancy, and he was round many islands in his day; but I, please +God, shall beat him at that before the recall is sounded. +Would you be surprised to learn that I contemplate becoming a +shipowner? I <a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +163</span>do, but it is a secret. Life is far better fun +than people dream who fall asleep among the chimney stacks and +telegraph wires.</p> +<p>Love to Henry James and others near.—Ever yours, my dear +fellow,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Equator Town</i>, <i>Apemama</i>, +<i>October</i> 1889.</p> +<p>No <i>Morning Star</i> came, however; and so now I try to send +this to you by the schooner <i>J. L. Tiernan</i>. We have +been about a month ashore, camping out in a kind of town the king +set up for us: on the idea that I was really a ‘big +chief’ in England. He dines with us sometimes, and +sends up a cook for a share of our meals when he does not come +himself. This sounds like high living! alas, undeceive +yourself. Salt junk is the mainstay; a low island, except +for cocoanuts, is just the same as a ship at sea: brackish water, +no supplies, and very little shelter. The king is a great +character—a thorough tyrant, very much of a gentleman, a +poet, a musician, a historian, or perhaps rather more a +genealogist—it is strange to see him lying in his house +among a lot of wives (nominal wives) writing the History of +Apemama in an account-book; his description of one of his own +songs, which he sang to me himself, as ‘about sweethearts, +and trees, and the sea—and no true, all-the-same +lie,’ seems about as compendious a definition of lyric +poetry as a man could ask. Tembinoka is here the great +attraction: all the rest is heat and tedium and villainous +dazzle, and yet more villainous mosquitoes. We are like to +be here, however, many a long week before we get away, and then +whither? A strange trade this voyaging: so vague, so +bound-down, so helpless. Fanny has been planting some +vegetables, and we have actually onions and radishes coming up: +ah, onion-despiser, were you but awhile in a low island, how your +heart would leap at sight of a coster’s barrow! I +think I could shed tears over a dish of turnips. No doubt +we shall all be glad to say farewell to low islands—<a +name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 164</span>I had near +said for ever. They are very tame; and I begin to read up +the directory, and pine for an island with a profile, a running +brook, or were it only a well among the rocks. The thought +of a mango came to me early this morning and set my greed on +edge; but you do not know what a mango is, so—.</p> +<p>I have been thinking a great deal of you and the Monument of +late, and even tried to get my thoughts into a poem, hitherto +without success. God knows how you are: I begin to weary +dreadfully to see you—well, in nine months, I hope; but +that seems a long time. I wonder what has befallen me too, +that flimsy part of me that lives (or dwindles) in the public +mind; and what has befallen <i>The Master</i>, and what kind of a +Box the Merry Box has been found. It is odd to know nothing +of all this. We had an old woman to do devil-work for you +about a month ago, in a Chinaman’s house on Apaiang (August +23rd or 24th). You should have seen the crone with a noble +masculine face, like that of an old crone [<i>sic</i>], a body +like a man’s (naked all but the feathery female girdle), +knotting cocoanut leaves and muttering spells: Fanny and I, and +the good captain of the <i>Equator</i>, and the Chinaman and his +native wife and sister-in-law, all squatting on the floor about +the sibyl; and a crowd of dark faces watching from behind her +shoulder (she sat right in the doorway) and tittering aloud with +strange, appalled, embarrassed laughter at each fresh +adjuration. She informed us you were in England, not +travelling and now no longer sick; she promised us a fair wind +the next day, and we had it, so I cherish the hope she was as +right about Sidney Colvin. The shipownering has rather +petered out since I last wrote, and a good many other plans +beside.</p> +<p>Health? Fanny very so-so; I pretty right upon the whole, +and getting through plenty work: I know not quite how, but it +seems to me not bad and in places funny.</p> +<p><a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 165</span>South +Sea Yarns:</p> +<p class="gutindent">1. <i>The Wrecker</i></p> +<p class="gutindent">2. <i>The Pearl Fisher</i></p> +<p class="gutindent">3. <i>The Beachcombers</i></p> +<p style="text-align: right">by R. L. S. and Lloyd O.</p> +<p><i>The Pearl Fisher</i>, part done, lies in Sydney. It +is <i>The Wrecker</i> we are now engaged upon: strange ways of +life, I think, they set forth: things that I can scarce touch +upon, or even not at all, in my travel book; and the yarns are +good, I do believe. <i>The Pearl Fisher</i> is for the +<i>New York Ledger</i>: the yarn is a kind of Monte Cristo +one. <i>The Wrecker</i> is the least good as a story, I +think; but the characters seem to me good. <i>The +Beachcombers</i> is more sentimental. These three scarce +touch the outskirts of the life we have been viewing; a hot-bed +of strange characters and incidents: Lord, how different from +Europe or the Pallid States! Farewell. Heaven knows +when this will get to you. I burn to be in Sydney and have +news.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Schooner</i> +‘<i>Equator</i>,’ <i>at sea</i>. 190 <i>miles off +Samoa</i>.<br /> +<i>Monday</i>, <i>December</i> 2<i>nd</i>, 1889</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COLVIN</span>,—We are +just nearing the end of our long cruise. Rain, calms, +squalls, bang—there’s the foretopmast gone; rain, +calm, squalls, away with the staysail; more rain, more calm, more +squalls; a prodigious heavy sea all the time, and the +<i>Equator</i> staggering and hovering like a swallow in a storm; +and the cabin, a great square, crowded with wet human beings, and +the rain avalanching <a name="page166"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 166</span>on the deck, and the leaks dripping +everywhere: Fanny, in the midst of fifteen males, bearing up +wonderfully. But such voyages are at the best a +trial. We had one particularity: coming down on Winslow +Reef, p. d. (position doubtful): two positions in the directory, +a third (if you cared to count that) on the chart; heavy sea +running, and the night due. The boats were cleared, bread +put on board, and we made up our packets for a boat voyage of +four or five hundred miles, and turned in, expectant of a +crash. Needless to say it did not come, and no doubt we +were far to leeward. If we only had twopenceworth of wind, +we might be at dinner in Apia to-morrow evening; but no such +luck: here we roll, dead before a light air—and that is no +point of sailing at all for a fore and aft schooner—the sun +blazing overhead, thermometer 88°, four degrees above what I +have learned to call South Sea temperature; but for all that, +land so near, and so much grief being happily astern, we are all +pretty gay on board, and have been photographing and +draught-playing and sky-larking like anything. I am minded +to stay not very long in Samoa and confine my studies there (as +far as any one can forecast) to the history of the late +war. My book is now practically modelled: if I can execute +what is designed, there are few better books now extant on this +globe, bar the epics, and the big tragedies, and histories, and +the choice lyric poetics and a novel or so—none. But +it is not executed yet; and let not him that putteth on his +armour, vaunt himself. At least, nobody has had such stuff; +such wild stories, such beautiful scenes, such singular +intimacies, such manners and traditions, so incredible a mixture +of the beautiful and horrible, the savage and civilised. I +will give you here some idea of the table of contents, which +ought to make your mouth water. I propose to call the book +<i>The South Seas</i>: it is rather a large title, but not many +people have seen more of them than I, perhaps no +one—certainly no one capable of using the material.</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center"><a +name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 167</span><i>Part +I</i>. <i>General</i>. ‘<i>Of schooners</i>, +<i>islands</i>, <i>and maroons</i>.’</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">CHAPTER</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">I</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Marine.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">II</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Contraband (smuggling, barratry, labour traffic).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">III</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>The Beachcomber.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IV</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Beachcomber stories. i. The Murder of the +Chinaman. ii. Death of a Beachcomber. iii. A +Character. iv. The Apia Blacksmith.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center"><i>Part +II</i>. <i>The Marquesas</i>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">V</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Anaho. i. Arrival. ii. Death. iii. The +Tapu. iv. Morals. v. Hoka.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VI</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Tai-o-hae. i. Arrival. ii. The French. +iii. The Royal Family. iv. Chiefless Folk. v. The +Catholics. vi. Hawaiian Missionaries.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VII</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Observations of a Long Pig. i. Cannibalism. +ii. Hatiheu. iii. Frère Michel. iv. +Toahauka and Atuona. v. The Vale of Atuona. vi. +Moipu. vii. Captain Hati.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center"><i>Part +III</i>. <i>The Dangerous Archipelago</i>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VIII</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>The Group.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IX</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>A House to let in a Low Island.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">X</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>A Paumotuan Funeral. i. The Funeral. ii. Tales +of the Dead.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center"><i>Part +IV</i>. <i>Tahiti</i>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XI</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Tautira.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XII</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Village Government in Tahiti.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIII</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>A Journey in Quest of Legends.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIV</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Legends and Songs.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XV</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Life in Eden.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVI</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Note on the French Regimen.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center"><i>Part +V</i>. <i>The Eight Islands</i>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVII</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>A Note on Missions.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVIII</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>The Kona Coast of Hawaii. i. Hookena. ii. A +Ride in the Forest. iii. A Law Case. iv. The City of +Refuge. v. The Lepers.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><a name="page168"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 168</span><span +class="GutSmall">XIX</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Molokai. i. A Week in the Precinct. ii. +History of the Leper Settlement. iii. The Mokolii. +iv. The Free Island.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center"><i>Part +VI</i>. <i>The Gilberts</i>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XX</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>The Group. ii. Position of Woman. iii. The +Missions. iv. Devilwork. v. Republics.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXI</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>Rule and Misrule on Makin. i. Butaritari, its King +and Court. ii. History of Three Kings. iii. The Drink +Question.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXII</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>A Butaritarian Festival.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXIII</span>.</p> +</td> +<td><p>The King of Apemama. i. First Impressions. ii. +Equator Town and the Palace. iii. The Three Corselets.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center"><i>Part +VII</i>. <i>Samoa</i>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center">which I have not +yet reached.</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p>Even as so sketched it makes sixty chapters, not less than 300 +<i>Cornhill</i> pages; and I suspect not much under 500. +Samoa has yet to be accounted for: I think it will be all +history, and I shall work in observations on Samoan manners, +under the similar heads in other Polynesian islands. It is +still possible, though unlikely, that I may add a passing visit +to Fiji or Tonga, or even both; but I am growing impatient to see +yourself, and I do not want to be later than June of coming to +England. Anyway, you see it will be a large work, and as it +will be copiously illustrated, the Lord knows what it will +cost. We shall return, God willing, by Sydney, Ceylon, Suez +and, I guess, Marseilles the many-masted (copyright +epithet). I shall likely pause a day or two in Paris, but +all that is too far ahead—although now it begins to look +near—so near, and I can hear the rattle of the hansom up +Endell Street, and see the gates swing back, and feel myself jump +out upon the Monument steps—Hosanna!—home +again. My dear fellow, now that my father is done with his +troubles, and 17 Heriot Row no more than a mere shell, you and +that <a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +169</span>gaunt old Monument in Bloomsbury are all that I have in +view when I use the word home; some passing thoughts there may be +of the rooms at Skerryvore, and the black-birds in the chine on a +May morning; but the essence is S. C. and the Museum. +Suppose, by some damned accident, you were no more: well, I +should return just the same, because of my mother and Lloyd, whom +I now think to send to Cambridge; but all the spring would have +gone out of me, and ninety per cent. of the attraction +lost. I will copy for you here a copy of verses made in +Apemama.</p> +<p class="poetry">I heard the pulse of the besieging sea<br /> +Throb far away all night. I heard the wind<br /> +Fly crying, and convulse tumultuous palms.<br /> +I rose and strolled. The isle was all bright sand,<br /> +And flailing fans and shadows of the palm:<br /> +The heaven all moon, and wind, and the blind vault—<br /> +The keenest planet slain, for Venus slept.<br /> +The King, my neighbour, with his host of wives,<br /> +Slept in the precinct of the palisade:<br /> +Where single, in the wind, under the moon,<br /> +Among the slumbering cabins, blazed a fire,<br /> +Sole street-lamp and the only sentinel.<br /> + To other lands and nights my fancy turned,<br /> +To London first, and chiefly to your house,<br /> +The many-pillared and the well-beloved.<br /> +There yearning fancy lighted; there again<br /> +In the upper room I lay and heard far off<br /> +The unsleeping city murmur like a shell;<br /> +The muffled tramp of the Museum guard<br /> +Once more went by me; I beheld again<br /> +Lamps vainly brighten the dispeopled street;<br /> +Again I longed for the returning morn,<br /> +The awaking traffic, the bestirring birds,<br /> +The consentaneous trill of tiny song<br /> +That weaves round monumental cornices<br /> +A passing charm of beauty: most of all,<br /> +<a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 170</span>For your +light foot I wearied, and your knock<br /> +That was the glad réveillé of my day.<br /> + Lo, now, when to your task in the great house<br /> +At morning through the portico you pass,<br /> +One moment glance where, by the pillared wall,<br /> +Far-voyaging island gods, begrimed with smoke,<br /> +Sit now unworshipped, the rude monument<br /> +Of faiths forgot and races undivined;<br /> +Sit now disconsolate, remembering well<br /> +The priest, the victim, and the songful crowd,<br /> +The blaze of the blue noon, and that huge voice<br /> +Incessant, of the breakers on the shore.<br /> +As far as these from their ancestral shrine,<br /> +So far, so foreign, your divided friends<br /> +Wander, estranged in body, not in mind.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Schooner</i> +‘<i>Equator</i>,’ <i>at sea</i>, <i>Wednesday</i>, +4<i>th</i> <i>December</i> 1889.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BURLINGAME</span>,—We are +now about to rise, like whales, from this long dive, and I make +ready a communication which is to go to you by the first mail +from Samoa. How long we shall stay in that group I cannot +forecast; but it will be best still to address at Sydney, where I +trust, when I shall arrive, perhaps in one month from now, more +probably in two or three, to find all news.</p> +<p><i>Business</i>.—Will you be likely to have a space in +the Magazine for a serial story, which should be, ready, I +believe, by April, at latest by autumn? It is called <i>The +Wrecker</i>; and in book form will appear as number 1 of South +Sea Yarns by R. L. S. and Lloyd Osbourne. Here is the table +as far as fully conceived, and indeed executed. <a +name="citation170"></a><a href="#footnote170" +class="citation">[170]</a> . . .</p> +<p><a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 171</span>The +story is founded on fact, the mystery I really believe to be +insoluble; the purchase of a wreck has never been handled before, +no more has San Francisco. These seem all elements of +success. There is, besides, a character, Jim Pinkerton, of +the advertising American, on whom we build a good deal; and some +sketches of the American merchant marine, opium smuggling in +Honolulu, etc. It should run to (about) three hundred pages +of my <span class="GutSmall">MS</span>. I would like to +know if this tale smiles upon you, if you will have a vacancy, +and what you will be willing to pay. It will of course be +copyright in both the States and England. I am a little +anxious to have it tried serially, as it tests the interest of +the mystery.</p> +<p><i>Pleasure</i>.—We have had a fine time in the Gilbert +group, though four months on low islands, which involves low +diet, is a largish order; and my wife is rather down. I am +myself, up to now, a pillar of health, though our long and vile +voyage of calms, squalls, cataracts of rain, sails carried away, +foretopmast lost, boats cleared and packets made on the approach +of a p. d. reef, etc., has cured me of salt brine, and filled me +with a longing for beef steak and mangoes not to be +depicted. The interest has been immense. Old King +Tembinoka of Apemama, the Napoleon of the group, poet, tyrant, +altogether a man of mark, gave me the woven corselets of his +grandfather, his father and his uncle, and, what pleased me more, +told me their singular story, then all manner of strange tales, +facts and experiences for my South Sea book, which should be a +Tearer, Mr. Burlingame: no one at least has had such stuff.</p> +<p>We are now engaged in the hell of a dead calm, the heat is +cruel—it is the only time when I suffer from heat: I have +nothing on but a pair of serge trousers, and a singlet without +sleeves of Oxford gauze—O, yes, and a red sash about my +waist; and yet as I sit here in the cabin, sweat streams from +me. The rest are on deck under a bit of awning; we are not +much above a hundred miles from <a name="page172"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 172</span>port, and we might as well be in +Kamschatka. However, I should be honest: this is the first +calm I have endured without the added bane of a heavy swell, and +the intoxicated blue-bottle wallowings and knockings of the +helpless ship.</p> +<p>I wonder how you liked the end of <i>The Master</i>; that was +the hardest job I ever had to do; did I do it?</p> +<p>My wife begs to be remembered to yourself and Mrs. +Burlingame. Remember all of us to all friends, particularly +Low, in case I don’t get a word through for him.—I +am, yours very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Samoa</i>, [<i>December</i> +1889].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BAXTER</span>,—. . . I +cannot return until I have seen either Tonga or Fiji or both: and +I must not leave here till I have finished my collections on the +war—a very interesting bit of history, the truth often very +hard to come at, and the search (for me) much complicated by the +German tongue, from the use of which I have desisted (I suppose) +these fifteen years. The last two days I have been mugging +with a dictionary from five to six hours a day; besides this, I +have to call upon, keep sweet, and judiciously interview all +sorts of persons—English, American, German, and +Samoan. It makes a hard life; above all, as after every +interview I have to come and get my notes straight on the +nail. I believe I should have got my facts before the end +of January, when I shall make our Tonga or Fiji. I am down +right in the hurricane season; but they had so bad a one last <a +name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 173</span>year, I +don’t imagine there will be much of an edition this. +Say that I get to Sydney some time in April, and I shall have +done well, and be in a position to write a very singular and +interesting book, or rather two; for I shall begin, I think, with +a separate opuscule on the Samoan Trouble, about as long as +<i>Kidnapped</i>, not very interesting, but valuable—and a +thing proper to be done. And then, hey! for the big South +Sea Book: a devil of a big one, and full of the finest sport.</p> +<p>This morning as I was going along to my breakfast a little +before seven, reading a number of <i>Blackwood’s +Magazine</i>, I was startled by a soft <i>talofa</i>, <i>alii</i> +(note for my mother: they are quite courteous here in the +European style, quite unlike Tahiti), right in my ear: it was +Mataafa coming from early mass in his white coat and white linen +kilt, with three fellows behind him. Mataafa is the nearest +thing to a hero in my history, and really a fine fellow; plenty +sense, and the most dignified, quiet, gentle manners. +Talking of <i>Blackwood</i>—a file of which I was lucky +enough to find here in the lawyer’s—Mrs. Oliphant +seems in a staggering state: from the <i>Wrong Box</i> to <i>The +Master</i> I scarce recognise either my critic or myself. I +gather that <i>The Master</i> should do well, and at least that +notice is agreeable reading. I expect to be home in June: +you will have gathered that I am pretty well. In addition +to my labours, I suppose I walk five or six miles a day, and +almost every day I ride up and see Fanny and Lloyd, who are in a +house in the bush with Ah Fu. I live in Apia for +history’s sake with Moors, an American trader. Day +before yesterday I was arrested and fined for riding fast in the +street, which made my blood bitter, as the wife of the manager of +the German Firm has twice almost ridden me down, and there seems +none to say her nay. The Germans have behaved pretty badly +here, but not in all ways so ill as you may have gathered: they +were doubtless much provoked; and if the insane Knappe had not +appeared upon the scene, <a name="page174"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 174</span>might have got out of the muddle +with dignity. I write along without rhyme or reason, as +things occur to me.</p> +<p>I hope from my outcries about printing you do not think I want +you to keep my news or letters in a Blue Beard closet. I +like all friends to hear of me; they all should if I had ninety +hours in the day, and strength for all of them; but you must have +gathered how hard worked I am, and you will understand I go to +bed a pretty tired man.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">29<i>th</i> <i>December</i>, +[1889].</p> +<p>To-morrow (Monday, I won’t swear to my day of the month; +this is the Sunday between Christmas and New Year) I go up the +coast with Mr. Clarke, one of the London Society missionaries, in +a boat to examine schools, see Tamasese, etc. Lloyd comes +to photograph. Pray Heaven we have good weather; this is +the rainy season; we shall be gone four or five days; and if the +rain keep off, I shall be glad of the change; if it rain, it will +be beastly. This explains still further how hard pressed I +am, as the mail will be gone ere I return, and I have thus lost +the days I meant to write in. I have a boy, Henry, who +interprets and copies for me, and is a great nuisance. He +said he wished to come to me in order to learn ‘long +expressions.’ Henry goes up along with us; and as I +am not fond of him, he may before the trip is over hear some +‘strong expressions.’ I am writing this on the +back balcony at Moors’, palms and a hill like the hill of +Kinnoull looking in at me; myself lying on the floor, and (like +the parties in Handel’s song) ‘clad in robes of +virgin white’; the ink is dreadful, the heat delicious, a +fine going breeze in the palms, and from the other side of the +house the sudden angry splash and roar of the Pacific on the +reef, where the warships are still piled from last year’s +hurricane, some under water, one high and dry upon her side, the +strangest figure of a ship was ever witnessed; the narrow bay +there is full of ships; the men-of-war covered with sail after +the rains, <a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +175</span>and (especially the German ship, which is fearfully and +awfully top heavy) rolling almost yards in, in what appears to be +calm water.</p> +<p>Samoa, Apia at least, is far less beautiful than the Marquesas +or Tahiti: a more gentle scene, gentler acclivities, a tamer face +of nature; and this much aided, for the wanderer, by the great +German plantations with their countless regular avenues of +palms. The island has beautiful rivers, of about the +bigness of our waters in the Lothians, with pleasant pools and +waterfalls and overhanging verdure, and often a great volume of +sound, so that once I thought I was passing near a mill, and it +was only the voice of the river. I am not specially +attracted by the people; but they are courteous; the women very +attractive, and dress lovely; the men purposelike, well set up, +tall, lean, and dignified. As I write the breeze is +brisking up, doors are beginning to slam: and shutters; a strong +draught sweeps round the balcony; it looks doubtful for +to-morrow. Here I shut up.—Ever your +affectionate,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Dr. Scott</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Apia</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>January</i> 20<i>th</i>, 1890.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR SCOTT</span>,—Shameful +indeed that you should not have heard of me before! I have +now been some twenty months in the South Seas, and am (up to +date) a person whom you would scarce know. I think nothing +of long walks and rides: I was four hours and a half gone the +other day, partly riding, partly climbing up a steep +ravine. I have stood a six months’ voyage on a copra +schooner with about three months ashore on coral atolls, which +means (except for cocoanuts to drink) no change whatever from +ship’s food. My wife suffered badly—it <a +name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 176</span>was too +rough a business altogether—Lloyd suffered—and, in +short, I was the only one of the party who ‘kept my end +up.’</p> +<p>I am so pleased with this climate that I have decided to +settle; have even purchased a piece of land from three to four +hundred acres, I know not which till the survey is completed, and +shall only return next summer to wind up my affairs in England; +thenceforth I mean to be a subject of the High Commissioner.</p> +<p>Now you would have gone longer yet without news of your truant +patient, but that I have a medical discovery to +communicate. I find I can (almost immediately) fight off a +cold with liquid extract of coca; two or (if obstinate) three +teaspoonfuls in the day for a variable period of from one to five +days sees the cold generally to the door. I find it at once +produces a glow, stops rigour, and though it makes one very +uncomfortable, prevents the advance of the disease. Hearing +of this influenza, it occurred to me that this might prove +remedial; and perhaps a stronger exhibition—injections of +cocaine, for instance—still better.</p> +<p>If on my return I find myself let in for this epidemic, which +seems highly calculated to nip me in the bud, I shall feel very +much inclined to make the experiment. See what a gulf you +may save me from if you shall have previously made it on <i>anima +vili</i>, on some less important sufferer, and shall have found +it worse than useless.</p> +<p>How is Miss Boodle and her family? Greeting to your +brother and all friends in Bournemouth, yours very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page177"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 177</span><i>Februar den</i> 3<i>en</i> +1890.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Dampfer Lübeck zwischen Apia +und Sydney</i>.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—I have +got one delightful letter from you, and heard from my mother of +your kindness in going to see her. Thank you for that: you +can in no way more touch and serve me. . . . Ay, ay, it is sad to +sell 17; sad and fine were the old days: when I was away in +Apemama, I wrote two copies of verse about Edinburgh and the +past, so ink black, so golden bright. I will send them, if +I can find them, for they will say something to you, and indeed +one is more than half addressed to you. This is +it—</p> +<p style="text-align: center">TO MY OLD COMRADES</p> +<p class="poetry">Do you remember—can we e’er +forget?—<br /> +How, in the coiled perplexities of youth,<br /> +In our wild climate, in our scowling town,<br /> +We gloomed and shivered, sorrowed, sobbed, and feared?<br /> +The belching winter wind, the missile rain,<br /> +The rare and welcome silence of the snows,<br /> +The laggard morn, the haggard day, the night,<br /> +The grimy spell of the nocturnal town,<br /> +Do you remember?—Ah, could one forget!<br /> +As when the fevered sick that all night long<br /> +Listed the wind intone, and hear at last<br /> +The ever-welcome voice of the chanticleer<br /> +Sing in the bitter hour before the dawn,—<br /> +With sudden ardour, these desire the day:</p> +<p>(Here a squall sends all flying.)</p> +<p class="poetry">So sang in the gloom of youth the bird of +hope;<br /> +So we, exulting, hearkened and desired.<br /> +For lo! as in the palace porch of life<br /> +We huddled with chimeras, from within—<br /> +How sweet to hear!—the music swelled and fell,<br /> +And through the breach of the revolving doors<br /> +What dreams of splendour blinded us and fled!<br /> +<a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 178</span>I have +since then contended and rejoiced;<br /> +Amid the glories of the house of life<br /> +Profoundly entered, and the shrine beheld:<br /> +Yet when the lamp from my expiring eyes<br /> +Shall dwindle and recede, the voice of love<br /> +Fall insignificant on my closing ears,<br /> +What sound shall come but the old cry of the wind<br /> +In our inclement city? what return<br /> +But the image of the emptiness of youth,<br /> +Filled with the sound of footsteps and that voice<br /> +Of discontent and rapture and despair?<br /> +So, as in darkness, from the magic lamp,<br /> +The momentary pictures gleam and fade<br /> +And perish, and the night resurges—these<br /> +Shall I remember, and then all forget.</p> +<p>They’re pretty second-rate, but felt. I +can’t be bothered to copy the other.</p> +<p>I have bought 314½ acres of beautiful land in the bush +behind Apia; when we get the house built, the garden laid, and +cattle in the place, it will be something to fall back on for +shelter and food; and if the island could stumble into political +quiet, it is conceivable it might even bring a little income. . . +. We range from 600 to 1500 feet, have five streams, waterfalls, +precipices, profound ravines, rich tablelands, fifty head of +cattle on the ground (if any one could catch them), a great view +of forest, sea, mountains, the warships in the haven: really a +noble place. Some day you are to take a long holiday and +come and see us: it has been all planned.</p> +<p>With all these irons in the fire, and cloudy prospects, you +may be sure I was pleased to hear a good account of +business. I believed <i>The Master</i> was a sure card: I +wonder why Henley thinks it grimy; grim it is, God knows, but +sure not grimy, else I am the more deceived. I am sorry he +did not care for it; I place it on the line with <i>Kidnapped</i> +myself. We’ll see as time goes on whether it goes +above or falls below.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +179</span><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>SS. Lübeck</i>, [<i>between +Apia and Sydney</i>, <i>February</i>] 1890.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BURLINGAME</span>,—I +desire nothing better than to continue my relation with the +Magazine, to which it pleases me to hear I have been +useful. The only thing I have ready is the enclosed +barbaric piece. As soon as I have arrived in Sydney I shall +send you some photographs, a portrait of Tembinoka, perhaps a +view of the palace or of the ‘matted men’ at their +singing; also T.’s flag, which my wife designed for him: in +a word, what I can do best for you. It will be thus a +foretaste of my book of travels. I shall ask you to let me +have, if I wish it, the use of the plates made, and to make up a +little tract of the verses and illustrations, of which you might +send six copies to H. M. Tembinoka, King of Apemama <i>via</i> +Butaritari, Gilbert Islands. It might be best to send it by +Crawford and Co., S. F. There is no postal service; and +schooners must take it, how they may and when. Perhaps some +such note as this might be prefixed:</p> +<p><i>At my departure from the island of Apemama</i>, <i>for +which you will look in vain in most atlases</i>, <i>the king and +I agreed</i>, <i>since we both set up to be in the poetical +way</i>, <i>that we should celebrate our separation in +verse</i>. <i>Whether or not his majesty has been true to +his bargain</i>, <i>the laggard posts of the Pacific may perhaps +inform me in six months</i>, <i>perhaps not before a +year</i>. <i>The following lines represent my part of the +contract</i>, <i>and it is hoped</i>, <i>by their pictures of +strange manners</i>, <i>they may entertain a civilised +audience</i>. <i>Nothing throughout has been invented or +exaggerated</i>; <i>the lady herein referred to as the +author’s Muse</i>, <i>has confined herself to stringing +into rhyme facts and legends that I saw or heard during two +months’ residence upon the island</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p><a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 180</span>You +will have received from me a letter about <i>The +Wrecker</i>. No doubt it is a new experiment for me, being +disguised so much as a study of manners, and the interest turning +on a mystery of the detective sort, I think there need be no +hesitation about beginning it in the fall of the year. +Lloyd has nearly finished his part, and I shall hope to send you +very soon the <span class="GutSmall">MS</span>. of about the +first four-sevenths. At the same time, I have been +employing myself in Samoa, collecting facts about the recent war; +and I propose to write almost at once and to publish shortly a +small volume, called I know not what—the War In Samoa, the +Samoa Trouble, an Island War, the War of the Three Consuls, I +know not—perhaps you can suggest. It was meant to be +a part of my travel book; but material has accumulated on my +hands until I see myself forced into volume form, and I hope it +may be of use, if it come soon. I have a few photographs of +the war, which will do for illustrations. It is conceivable +you might wish to handle this in the Magazine, although I am +inclined to think you won’t, and to agree with you. +But if you think otherwise, there it is. The travel letters +(fifty of them) are already contracted for in papers; these I was +quite bound to let M’Clure handle, as the idea was of his +suggestion, and I always felt a little sore as to one trick I +played him in the matter of the end-papers. The war-volume +will contain some very interesting and picturesque details: more +I can’t promise for it. Of course the fifty newspaper +letters will be simply patches chosen from the travel volume (or +volumes) as it gets written.</p> +<p>But you see I have in hand:—</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p>Say half done.</p> +</td> +<td><p>1. <i>The Wrecker</i>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Lloyd’s copy half done, mine not touched.</p> +</td> +<td><p>2. <i>The Pearl Fisher</i> (a novel promised to the +<i>Ledger</i>, and which will form, when it comes in book form, +No. 2 of our <i>South Sea Yarns</i>).</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +181</span>Not begun, but all material ready.</p> +</td> +<td><p>3. <i>The War Volume</i>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ditto.</p> +</td> +<td><p>4. <i>The Big Travel Book</i>, which includes the +letters.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>You know how they stand.</p> +</td> +<td><p>5. <i>The Ballads</i>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p><i>Excusez du peu</i>! And you see what madness it would +be to make any fresh engagement. At the same time, you have +<i>The Wrecker</i> and the <i>War Volume</i>, if you like +either—or both—to keep my name in the Magazine.</p> +<p>It begins to look as if I should not be able to get any more +ballads done this somewhile. I know the book would sell +better if it were all ballads; and yet I am growing half tempted +to fill up with some other verses. A good few are connected +with my voyage, such as the ‘Home of Tembinoka’ sent +herewith, and would have a sort of slight affinity to the +<i>South Sea Ballads</i>. You might tell me how that +strikes a stranger.</p> +<p>In all this, my real interest is with the travel volume, which +ought to be of a really extraordinary interest.</p> +<p>I am sending you ‘Tembinoka’ as he stands; but +there are parts of him that I hope to better, particularly in +stanzas <span class="GutSmall">III</span>. and <span +class="GutSmall">II</span>. I scarce feel intelligent +enough to try just now; and I thought at any rate you had better +see it, set it up if you think well, and let me have a proof; so, +at least, we shall get the bulk of it straight. I have +spared you Teñkoruti, Tenbaitake, Tembinatake, and other +barbarous names, because I thought the dentists in the States had +work enough without my assistance; but my chiefs name is <span +class="smcap">Tembinoka</span>, pronounced, according to the +present quite modern habit in the Gilberts, +Tembinok’. Compare in the margin Tengkorootch; a +singular new trick, setting at defiance all South Sea analogy, +for nowhere else do they show even the ability, far less the +will, to end a word upon a consonant. Loia is Lloyd’s +name, ship becomes shipé, teapot, tipoté, +etc. <a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +182</span>Our admirable friend Herman Melville, of whom, since I +could judge, I have thought more than ever, had no ear for +languages whatever: his Hapar tribe should be Hapaa, etc.</p> +<p>But this is of no interest to you: suffice it, you see how I +am as usual up to the neck in projects, and really all likely +bairns this time. When will this activity cease? Too +soon for me, I dare to say.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to James Payn</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>February</i> 4<i>th</i>, 1890, +<i>SS.</i> ‘<i>Lübeck</i>.’</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR JAMES PAYN</span>,—In +virtue of confessions in your last, you would at the present +moment, if you were along of me, be sick; and I will ask you to +receive that as an excuse for my hand of write. Excuse a +plain seaman if he regards with scorn the likes of you pore +land-lubbers ashore now. (Reference to nautical +ditty.) Which I may however be allowed to add that when +eight months’ mail was laid by my side one evening in Apia, +and my wife and I sat up the most of the night to peruse the +same—(precious indisposed we were next day in +consequence)—no letter, out of so many, more appealed to +our hearts than one from the pore, stick-in-the-mud, +land-lubbering, common (or garden) Londoner, James Payn. +Thank you for it; my wife says, ‘Can’t I see him when +we get back to London?’ I have told her the thing +appeared to me within the spear of practical politix. (Why +can’t I spell and write like an honest, sober, god-fearing +litry gent? I think it’s the motion of the +ship.) Here I was interrupted to play chess with the chief +engineer; as I grow old, I prefer the ‘athletic sport of +cribbage,’ of which (I am sure I misquote) I have just been +reading in your delightful <i>Literary Recollections</i>. +How you skim along, you and Andrew Lang (different as you are), +and yet the only two who can keep a fellow smiling every page, +and ever and again laughing out loud. I joke wi’ +deeficulty, <a name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +183</span>I believe; I am not funny; and when I am, Mrs. Oliphant +says I’m vulgar, and somebody else says (in Latin) that +I’m a whore, which seems harsh and even uncalled for: I +shall stick to weepers; a 5s. weeper, 2s. 6d. laugher, 1s. +shocker.</p> +<p>My dear sir, I grow more and more idiotic; I cannot even feign +sanity. Sometime in the month of June a stalwart +weather-beaten man, evidently of seafaring antecedents, shall be +observed wending his way between the Athenæum Club and +Waterloo Place. Arrived off No. 17, he shall be observed to +bring his head sharply to the wind, and tack into the outer +haven. ‘Captain Payn in the +harbour?’—‘Ay, ay, sir. What +ship?’—‘Barquentin R. L. S., nine hundred and +odd days out from the port of Bournemouth, homeward bound, with +yarns and curiosities.’</p> +<p>Who was it said, ‘For God’s sake, don’t +speak of it!’ about Scott and his tears? He knew what +he was saying. The fear of that hour is the skeleton in all +our cupboards; that hour when the pastime and the livelihood go +together; and—I am getting hard of hearing myself; a pore +young child of forty, but new come frae my Mammy, O!</p> +<p>Excuse these follies, and accept the expression of all my +regards.—Yours affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Union Club</i>, <i>Sydney</i>, +<i>March</i> 7<i>th</i>, 1890.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—I did not +send off the enclosed before from laziness; having gone quite +sick, and being <a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +184</span>a blooming prisoner here in the club, and indeed in my +bedroom. I was in receipt of your letters and your +ornamental photo, and was delighted to see how well you looked, +and how reasonably well I stood. . . . I am sure I shall never +come back home except to die; I may do it, but shall always think +of the move as suicidal, unless a great change comes over me, of +which as yet I see no symptom. This visit to Sydney has +smashed me handsomely; and yet I made myself a prisoner here in +the club upon my first arrival. This is not encouraging for +further ventures; Sydney winter—or, I might almost say, +Sydney spring, for I came when the worst was over—is so +small an affair, comparable to our June depression at home in +Scotland. . . . The pipe is right again; it was the springs that +had rusted, and ought to have been oiled. Its voice is now +that of an angel; but, Lord! here in the club I dare not wake +it! Conceive my impatience to be in my own backwoods and +raise the sound of minstrelsy. What pleasures are to be +compared with those of the Unvirtuous Virtuoso.—Yours ever +affectionately, the Unvirtuous Virtuoso,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sidney Colvin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>SS.</i> ‘<i>Janet +Nicoll</i>,’ <i>off Upolu</i> [<i>Spring</i> 1890].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAREST COLVIN</span>,—I was +sharply ill at Sydney, cut off, right out of bed, in this steamer +on a fresh island cruise, and have already reaped the +benefit. We are excellently found this time, on a spacious +vessel, with an <a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +185</span>excellent table; the captain, supercargo, our one +fellow-passenger, etc., very nice; and the charterer, Mr. +Henderson, the very man I could have chosen. The truth is, +I fear, this life is the only one that suits me; so long as I +cruise in the South Seas, I shall be well and happy—alas, +no, I do not mean that, and <i>absit omen</i>!—I mean that, +so soon as I cease from cruising, the nerves are strained, the +decline commences, and I steer slowly but surely back to +bedward. We left Sydney, had a cruel rough passage to +Auckland, for the <i>Janet</i> is the worst roller I was ever +aboard of. I was confined to my cabin, ports closed, self +shied out of the berth, stomach (pampered till the day I left on +a diet of perpetual egg-nogg) revolted at ship’s food and +ship eating, in a frowsy bunk, clinging with one hand to the +plate, with the other to the glass, and using the knife and fork +(except at intervals) with the eyelid. No matter: I picked +up hand over hand. After a day in Auckland, we set sail +again; were blown up in the main cabin with calcium fires, as we +left the bay. Let no man say I am unscientific: when I ran, +on the alert, out of my stateroom, and found the main cabin +incarnadined with the glow of the last scene of a pantomime, I +stopped dead: ‘What is this?’ said I. +‘This ship is on fire, I see that; but why a +pantomime?’ And I stood and reasoned the point, until +my head was so muddled with the fumes that I could not find the +companion. A few seconds later, the captain had to enter +crawling on his belly, and took days to recover (if he has +recovered) from the fumes. By singular good fortune, we got +the hose down in time and saved the ship, but Lloyd lost most of +his clothes and a great part of our photographs was +destroyed. Fanny saw the native sailors tossing overboard a +blazing trunk; she stopped them in time, and behold, it contained +my manuscripts. Thereafter we had three (or two) days fine +weather: then got into a gale of wind, with rain and a vexatious +sea. As we drew into our anchorage in a bight of Savage +Island, a man ashore told me afterwards <a +name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 186</span>the sight +of the <i>Janet Nicoll</i> made him sick; and indeed it was rough +play, though nothing to the night before. All through this +gale I worked four to six hours per diem, spearing the ink-bottle +like a flying fish, and holding my papers together as I +might. For, of all things, what I was at was +history—the Samoan business—and I had to turn from +one to another of these piles of manuscript notes, and from one +page to another in each, until I should have found employment for +the hands of Briareus. All the same, this history is a +godsend for a voyage; I can put in time, getting events +co-ordinated and the narrative distributed, when my much-heaving +numskull would be incapable of finish or fine style. At +Savage we met the missionary barque <i>John Williams</i>. I +tell you it was a great day for Savage Island: the path up the +cliffs was crowded with gay islandresses (I like that feminine +plural) who wrapped me in their embraces, and picked my pockets +of all my tobacco, with a manner which a touch would have made +revolting, but as it was, was simply charming, like the Golden +Age. One pretty, little, stalwart minx, with a red flower +behind her ear, had searched me with extraordinary zeal; and +when, soon after, I missed my matches, I accused her (she still +following us) of being the thief. After some delay, and +with a subtle smile, she produced the box, gave me <i>one +match</i>, and put the rest away again. Too tired to add +more.—Your most affectionate,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>S.S.</i> ‘<i>Janet +Nicoll</i>,’ <i>off Peru Island</i>, <i>Kingsmills +Group</i>,<br /> +<i>July</i> 13<i>th</i>, ’90.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BURLINGAME</span>,—I am +moved to write to you in the matter of the end papers. I am +somewhat tempted to begin them again. Follow the reasons +<i>pro</i> and <i>con</i>:—</p> +<p>1st. I must say I feel as if something in the nature of +<a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 187</span>the end +paper were a desirable finish to the number, and that the +substitutes of occasional essays by occasional contributors +somehow fail to fill the bill. Should you differ with me on +this point, no more is to be said. And what follows must be +regarded as lost words.</p> +<p>2nd. I am rather taken with the idea of continuing the +work. For instance, should you have no distaste for papers +of the class called <i>Random Memories</i>, I should enjoy +continuing them (of course at intervals), and when they were done +I have an idea they might make a readable book. On the +other hand, I believe a greater freedom of choice might be taken, +the subjects more varied and more briefly treated, in somewhat +approaching the manner of Andrew Lang in the <i>Sign of the +Ship</i>; it being well understood that the broken sticks <a +name="citation187"></a><a href="#footnote187" +class="citation">[187]</a> method is one not very suitable (as +Colonel Burke would say) to my genius, and not very likely to be +pushed far in my practice. Upon this point I wish you to +condense your massive brain. In the last lot I was +promised, and I fondly expected to receive, a vast amount of +assistance from intelligent and genial correspondents. I +assure you, I never had a scratch of a pen from any one above the +level of a village idiot, except once, when a lady sowed my head +full of grey hairs by announcing that she was going to direct her +life in future by my counsels. Will the correspondents be +more copious and less irrelevant in the future? Suppose +that to be the case, will they be of any use to me in my place of +exile? Is it possible for a man in Samoa to be in touch +with the great heart of the People? And is it not perhaps a +mere folly to attempt, from so hopeless a distance, anything so +delicate as a series of papers? Upon these points, perpend, +and give me the results of your perpensions.</p> +<p>3rd. The emolument would be agreeable to your humble +servant.</p> +<p>I have now stated all the <i>pros</i>, and the most of the +<i>cons</i> <a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +188</span>are come in by the way. There follows, however, +one immense Con (with a capital ‘C’), which I beg you +to consider particularly. I fear that, to be of any use for +your magazine, these papers should begin with the beginning of a +volume. Even supposing my hands were free, this would be +now impossible for next year. You have to consider whether, +supposing you have no other objection, it would be worth while to +begin the series in the middle of a volume, or desirable to delay +the whole matter until the beginning of another year.</p> +<p>Now supposing that the <i>cons</i> have it, and you refuse my +offer, let me make another proposal, which you will be very +inclined to refuse at the first off-go, but which I really +believe might in time come to something. You know how the +penny papers have their answers to correspondents. Why not +do something of the same kind for the +‘culchawed’? Why not get men like Stimson, +Brownell, Professor James, Goldwin Smith, and others who will +occur to you more readily than to me, to put and to answer a +series of questions of intellectual and general interest, until +at last you should have established a certain standard of matter +to be discussed in this part of the Magazine?</p> +<p>I want you to get me bound volumes of the Magazine from its +start. The Lord knows I have had enough copies; where they +are I know not. A wandering author gathers no +magazines.</p> +<p><i>The Wrecker</i> is in no forrader state than in last +reports. I have indeed got to a period when I cannot well +go on until I can refresh myself on the proofs of the +beginning. My respected collaborator, who handles the +machine which is now addressing you, has indeed carried his +labours farther, but not, I am led to understand, with what we +used to call a blessing; at least, I have been refused a sight of +his latest labours. However, there is plenty of time ahead, +and I feel no anxiety about the tale, except that it may meet +with your approval.</p> +<p><a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 189</span>All +this voyage I have been busy over my <i>Travels</i>, which, given +a very high temperature and the saloon of a steamer usually going +before the wind, and with the cabins in front of the engines, has +come very near to prostrating me altogether. You will +therefore understand that there are no more poems. I wonder +whether there are already enough, and whether you think that such +a volume would be worth the publishing? I shall hope to +find in Sydney some expression of your opinion on this +point. Living as I do among—not the most cultured of +mankind (‘splendidly educated and perfect gentlemen when +sober’)—I attach a growing importance to friendly +criticisms from yourself.</p> +<p>I believe that this is the most of our business. As for +my health, I got over my cold in a fine style, but have not been +very well of late. To my unaffected annoyance, the +blood-spitting has started again. I find the heat of a +steamer decidedly wearing and trying in these latitudes, and I am +inclined to think the superior expedition rather dearly paid +for. Still, the fact that one does not even remark the +coming of a squall, nor feel relief on its departure, is a mercy +not to be acknowledged without gratitude. The rest of the +family seem to be doing fairly well; both seem less run down than +they were on the <i>Equator</i>, and Mrs. Stevenson very much +less so. We have now been three months away, have visited +about thirty-five islands, many of which were novel to us, and +some extremely entertaining; some also were old acquaintances, +and pleasant to revisit. In the meantime, we have really a +capital time aboard ship, in the most pleasant and interesting +society, and with (considering the length and nature of the +voyage) an excellent table. Please remember us all to Mr. +Scribner, the young chieftain of the house, and the lady, whose +health I trust is better. To Mrs. Burlingame we all desire +to be remembered, and I hope you will give our news to Low, St. +Gaudens, Faxon, and others of the faithful in the city. I +shall <a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +190</span>probably return to Samoa direct, having given up all +idea of returning to civilisation in the meanwhile. There, +on my ancestral acres, which I purchased six months ago from a +blind Scots blacksmith, you will please address me until further +notice. The name of the ancestral acres is going to be +Vailima; but as at the present moment nobody else knows the name, +except myself and the co-patentees, it will be safer, if less +ambitious, to address R. L. S., Apia, Samoa. The ancestral +acres run to upwards of three hundred; they enjoy the +ministrations of five streams, whence the name. They are +all at the present moment under a trackless covering of +magnificent forest, which would be worth a great deal if it grew +beside a railway terminus. To me, as it stands, it +represents a handsome deficit. Obliging natives from the +Cannibal Islands are now cutting it down at my expense. You +would be able to run your magazine to much greater advantage if +the terms of authors were on the same scale with those of my +cannibals. We have also a house about the size of a +manufacturer’s lodge. ’Tis but the egg of the +future palace, over the details of which on paper Mrs. Stevenson +and I have already shed real tears; what it will be when it comes +to paying for it, I leave you to imagine. But if it can +only be built as now intended, it will be with genuine +satisfaction and a growunded pride that I shall welcome you at +the steps of my Old Colonial Home, when you land from the steamer +on a long-merited holiday. I speak much at my ease; yet I +do not know, I may be now an outlaw, a bankrupt, the abhorred of +all good men. I do not know, you probably do. Has +Hyde <a name="citation190"></a><a href="#footnote190" +class="citation">[190]</a> turned upon me? Have I fallen, +like Danvers Carew?</p> +<p>It is suggested to me that you might like to know what will be +my future society. Three consuls, all at logger-heads with +one another, or at the best in a clique of two <a +name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 191</span>against +one; three different sects of missionaries, not upon the best of +terms; and the Catholics and Protestants in a condition of +unhealable ill-feeling as to whether a wooden drum ought or ought +not to be beaten to announce the time of school. The native +population, very genteel, very songful, very agreeable, very +good-looking, chronically spoiling for a fight (a circumstance +not to be entirely neglected in the design of the palace). +As for the white population of (technically, ‘The +Beach’), I don’t suppose it is possible for any +person not thoroughly conversant with the South Seas to form the +smallest conception of such a society, with its grog-shops, its +apparently unemployed hangers-on, its merchants of all degrees of +respectability and the reverse. The paper, of which I must +really send you a copy—if yours were really a live +magazine, you would have an exchange with the editor: I assure +you, it has of late contained a great deal of matter about one of +your contributors—rejoices in the name of <i>Samoa Times +and South Sea Advertiser</i>. The advertisements in the +<i>Advertiser</i> are permanent, being simply subsidies for its +existence. A dashing warfare of newspaper correspondence +goes on between the various residents, who are rather fond of +recurring to one another’s antecedents. But when all +is said, there are a lot of very nice, pleasant people, and I +don’t know that Apia is very much worse than half a hundred +towns that I could name.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Hotel Sebastopol</i>, +<i>Noumea</i>, <i>August</i> 1890.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—I have +stayed here a week while Lloyd and my wife continue to voyage in +the <i>Janet Nicoll</i>; <a name="page192"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 192</span>this I did, partly to see the +convict system, partly to shorten my stay in the extreme +cold—hear me with my extreme! <i>moi qui suis originaire +d’Edinbourg</i>—of Sydney at this season. I am +feeling very seedy, utterly fatigued, and overborne with +sleep. I have a fine old gentleman of a doctor, who attends +and cheers and entertains, if he does not cure me; but even with +his ministrations I am almost incapable of the exertion +sufficient for this letter; and I am really, as I write, falling +down with sleep. What is necessary to say, I must try to +say shortly. Lloyd goes to clear out our establishments: +pray keep him in funds, if I have any; if I have not, pray try to +raise them. Here is the idea: to install ourselves, at the +risk of bankruptcy, in Samoa. It is not the least likely it +will pay (although it may); but it is almost certain it will +support life, with very few external expenses. If I die, it +will be an endowment for the survivors, at least for my wife and +Lloyd; and my mother, who might prefer to go home, has her +own. Hence I believe I shall do well to hurry my +installation. The letters are already in part done; in part +done is a novel for Scribner; in the course of the next twelve +months I should receive a considerable amount of money. I +am aware I had intended to pay back to my capital some of +this. I am now of opinion I should act foolishly. +Better to build the house and have a roof and farm of my own; and +thereafter, with a livelihood assured, save and repay . . . +There is my livelihood, all but books and wine, ready in a +nutshell; and it ought to be more easy to save and to repay +afterwards. Excellent, say you, but will you save and will +you repay? I do not know, said the Bell of Old Bow. . . . +It seems clear to me. . . . The deuce of the affair is that I do +not know when I shall see you and Colvin. I guess you will +have to come and see me: many a time already we have arranged the +details of your visit in the yet unbuilt house on the +mountain. I shall be able to get decent wine from +Noumea. We shall be able to give you a decent welcome, <a +name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 193</span>and talk of +old days. <i>Apropos</i> of old days, do you remember still +the phrase we heard in Waterloo Place? I believe you made a +piece for the piano on that phrase. Pray, if you remember +it, send it me in your next. If you find it impossible to +write correctly, send it me <i>à la récitative</i>, +and indicate the accents. Do you feel (you must) how +strangely heavy and stupid I am? I must at last give up and +go sleep; I am simply a rag.</p> +<p>The morrow: I feel better, but still dim and groggy. +To-night I go to the governor’s; such a lark—no dress +clothes—twenty-four hours’ notice—able-bodied +Polish tailor—suit made for a man with the figure of a +puncheon—same hastily altered for self with the figure of a +bodkin—sight inconceivable. Never mind; dress +clothes, ‘which nobody can deny’; and the officials +have been all so civil that I liked neither to refuse nor to +appear in mufti. Bad dress clothes only prove you are a +grisly ass; no dress clothes, even when explained, indicate a +want of respect. I wish you were here with me to help me +dress in this wild raiment, and to accompany me to M. +Noel-Pardon’s. I cannot say what I would give if +there came a knock now at the door and you came in. I guess +Noel-Pardon would go begging, and we might burn the fr. 200 dress +clothes in the back garden for a bonfire; or what would be yet +more expensive and more humorous, get them once more expanded to +fit you, and when that was done, a second time cut down for my +gossamer dimensions.</p> +<p>I hope you never forget to remember me to your father, who has +always a place in my heart, as I hope I have a little in +his. His kindness helped me infinitely when you and I were +young; I recall it with gratitude and affection in this town of +convicts at the world’s end. There are very few +things, my dear Charles, worth mention: on a retrospect of life, +the day’s flash and colour, one day with another, flames, +dazzles, and puts to sleep; and when the days are gone, like a +fast-flying thaumatrope, they make but a single pattern. +Only a few things stand out; and <a name="page194"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 194</span>among these—most plainly to +me—Rutland Square,—Ever, my dear Charles, your +affectionate friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—Just returned from trying on the dress +clo’. Lord, you should see the coat! It stands +out at the waist like a bustle, the flaps cross in front, the +sleeves are like bags.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Union Club</i>, <i>Sydney</i> +[<i>August</i> 1890].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BURLINGAME</span>,—</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Ballads</i>.</p> +<p>The deuce is in this volume. It has cost me more +botheration and dubiety than any other I ever took in hand. +On one thing my mind is made up: the verses at the end have no +business there, and throw them down. Many of them are bad, +many of the rest want nine years’ keeping, and the +remainder are not relevant—throw them down; some I never +want to hear of more, others will grow in time towards decent +items in a second <i>Underwoods</i>—and in the meanwhile, +down with them! At the same time, I have a sneaking idea +the ballads are not altogether without merit—I don’t +know if they’re poetry, but they’re good narrative, +or I’m deceived. (You’ve never said one word +about them, from which I astutely gather you are dead set +against: ‘he was a diplomatic man’—extract from +epitaph of E. L. B.—‘and remained on good terms with +Minor Poets.’) You will have to judge: one of the +Gladstonian trinity of paths must be chosen. (1st) Either +<a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 195</span>publish +the five ballads, such as they are, in a volume called +<i>Ballads</i>; in which case pray send sheets at once to Chatto +and Windus. Or (2nd) write and tell me you think the book +too small, and I’ll try and get into the mood to do some +more. Or (3rd) write and tell me the whole thing is a +blooming illusion; in which case draw off some twenty copies for +my private entertainment, and charge me with the expense of the +whole dream.</p> +<p>In the matter of rhyme no man can judge himself; I am at the +world’s end, have no one to consult, and my publisher holds +his tongue. I call it unfair and almost unmanly. I do +indeed begin to be filled with animosity; Lord, wait till you see +the continuation of <i>The Wrecker</i>, when I introduce some New +York publishers. . . It’s a good scene; the quantities you +drink and the really hideous language you are represented as +employing may perhaps cause you one tithe of the pain you have +inflicted by your silence on, sir, The Poetaster,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>Lloyd is off home; my wife and I dwell sundered: she in +lodgings, preparing for the move; I here in the club, and at my +old trade—bedridden. Naturally, the visit home is +given up; we only wait our opportunity to get to Samoa, where, +please, address me.</p> +<p>Have I yet asked you to despatch the books and papers left in +your care to me at Apia, Samoa? I wish you would, <i>quam +primum</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Union Club</i>, <i>Sydney</i>, +<i>August</i> 1890.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENRY +JAMES</span>,—Kipling is too clever to live. The +<i>Bête Humaine</i> I had already perused in Noumea, +listening the while to the strains of the convict band. He +a Beast; but not human, and, to be frank, not very <a +name="page196"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +196</span>interesting. ‘Nervous maladies: the +homicidal ward,’ would be the better name: O, this game +gets very tedious.</p> +<p>Your two long and kind letters have helped to entertain the +old familiar sickbed. So has a book called <i>The +Bondman</i>, by Hall Caine; I wish you would look at it. I +am not half-way through yet. Read the book, and communicate +your views. Hall Caine, by the way, appears to take +Hugo’s view of History and Chronology. (<i>Later</i>; +the book doesn’t keep up; it gets very wild.)</p> +<p>I must tell you plainly—I can’t tell +Colvin—I do not think I shall come to England more than +once, and then it’ll be to die. Health I enjoy in the +tropics; even here, which they call sub- or semi-tropical, I come +only to catch cold. I have not been out since my arrival; +live here in a nice bedroom by the fireside, and read books and +letters from Henry James, and send out to get his <i>Tragic +Muse</i>, only to be told they can’t be had as yet in +Sydney, and have altogether a placid time. But I +can’t go out! The thermometer was nearly down to +50° the other day—no temperature for me, Mr. James: how +should I do in England? I fear not at all. Am I very +sorry? I am sorry about seven or eight people in England, +and one or two in the States. And outside of that, I simply +prefer Samoa. These are the words of honesty and +soberness. (I am fasting from all but sin, coughing, <i>The +Bondman</i>, a couple of eggs and a cup of tea.) I was +never fond of towns, houses, society, or (it seems) +civilisation. Nor yet it seems was I ever very fond of +(what is technically called) God’s green earth. The +sea, islands, the islanders, the island life and climate, make +and keep me truly happier. These last two years I have been +much at sea, and I have <i>never wearied</i>; sometimes I have +indeed grown impatient for some destination; more often I was +sorry that the voyage drew so early to an end; and never once did +I lose my fidelity to blue water and a ship. It is plain, +then, that for me my exile to the place of schooners and islands +can be in no sense regarded as a calamity.</p> +<p><a name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +197</span>Good-bye just now: I must take a turn at my proofs.</p> +<p><i>N.B.</i>—Even my wife has weakened about the +sea. She wearied, the last time we were ashore, to get +afloat again.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Marcel Schwob</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Union Club</i>, <i>Sydney</i>, +<i>August</i> 19<i>th</i>, 1890.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MR. +SCHWOB</span>,—<i>Mais</i>, <i>alors</i>, <i>vous avez tous +les bonheurs</i>, <i>vous</i>! More about Villon; it seems +incredible: when it is put in order, pray send it me.</p> +<p>You wish to translate the <i>Black Arrow</i>: dear sir, you +are hereby authorised; but I warn you, I do not like the +work. Ah, if you, who know so well both tongues, and have +taste and instruction—if you would but take a fancy to +translate a book of mine that I myself admired—for we +sometimes admire our own—or I do—with what +satisfaction would the authority be granted! But these +things are too much to expect. <i>Vous ne détestez +pas alors mes bonnes femmes</i>? <i>moi</i>, <i>je les +déteste</i>. I have never pleased myself with any +women of mine save two character parts, one of only a few +lines—the Countess of Rosen, and Madame Desprez in the +<i>Treasure of Franchard</i>.</p> +<p>I had indeed one moment of pride about my poor <i>Black +Arrow</i>: Dickon Crookback I did, and I do, think is a spirited +and possible figure. Shakespeare’s—O, if we can +call that cocoon Shakespeare!—Shakespeare’s is +spirited—one likes to see the untaught athlete butting +against the adamantine ramparts of human nature, head down, +breach up; it reminds us how trivial we are to-day, and what +safety resides in our triviality. For spirited it may be, +but O, sure not possible! I love Dumas and I love +Shakespeare: you will not mistake me when I say that the Richard +of the one reminds me of the Porthos of the other; and if by any +sacrifice of my own literary baggage I could clear the <i>Vicomte +de Bragelonne</i> of Porthos, <i>Jekyll</i> might go, and the +<i>Master</i>, and the <i>Black Arrow</i>, you may <a +name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 198</span>be sure, +and I should think my life not lost for mankind if half a dozen +more of my volumes must be thrown in.</p> +<p>The tone of your pleasant letters makes me egotistical; you +make me take myself too gravely. Comprehend how I have +lived much of my time in France, and loved your country, and many +of its people, and all the time was learning that which your +country has to teach—breathing in rather that atmosphere of +art which can only there be breathed; and all the time +knew—and raged to know—that I might write with the +pen of angels or of heroes, and no Frenchman be the least the +wiser! And now steps in M. Marcel Schwob, writes me the +most kind encouragement, and reads and understands, and is kind +enough to like my work.</p> +<p>I am just now overloaded with work. I have two huge +novels on hand—<i>The Wrecker</i> and the <i>Pearl +Fisher</i>, <a name="citation198"></a><a href="#footnote198" +class="citation">[198]</a> in collaboration with my stepson: the +latter, the <i>Pearl Fisher</i>, I think highly of, for a black, +ugly, trampling, violent story, full of strange scenes and +striking characters. And then I am about waist-deep in my +big book on the South Seas: <i>the</i> big book on the South Seas +it ought to be, and shall. And besides, I have some verses +in the press, which, however, I hesitate to publish. For I +am no judge of my own verse; self-deception is there so +facile. All this and the cares of an impending settlement +in Samoa keep me very busy, and a cold (as usual) keeps me in +bed.</p> +<p>Alas, I shall not have the pleasure to see you yet awhile, if +ever. You must be content to take me as a wandering voice, +and in the form of occasional letters from recondite islands; and +address me, if you will be good enough to write, to Apia, +Samoa. My stepson, Mr. Osbourne, goes home meanwhile to +arrange some affairs; it is not unlikely he may go to Paris to +arrange about the illustrations to my South Seas; in which case I +shall ask him to call upon you, and give you some word of our +outlandish destinies. You will find him intelligent, I <a +name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span>think; and +I am sure, if (<i>par hasard</i>) you should take any interest in +the islands, he will have much to tell you.—Herewith I +conclude, and am your obliged and interested correspondent,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—The story you refer to has got lost in the +post.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Andrew Lang</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Union Club</i>, <i>Sydney</i> +[<i>August </i>1890].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LANG</span>,—I observed +with a great deal of surprise and interest that a controversy in +which you have been taking sides at home, in yellow London, +hinges in part at least on the Gilbert Islanders and their +customs in burial. Nearly six months of my life has been +passed in the group: I have revisited it but the other day; and I +make haste to tell you what I know. The upright +stones—I enclose you a photograph of one on +Apemama—are certainly connected with religion; I do not +think they are adored. They stand usually on the windward +shore of the islands, that is to say, apart from habitation (on +<i>enclosed islands</i>, where the people live on the sea side, I +do not know how it is, never having lived on one). I +gathered from Tembinoka, Rex Apemamae, that the pillars were +supposed to fortify the island from invasion: spiritual +martellos. I think he indicated they were connected with +the cult of Tenti—pronounce almost as chintz in English, +the <i>t</i> being explosive; but you must take this with a grain +of salt, for I knew no word of Gilbert Island; and the +King’s English, although creditable, is rather vigorous +than exact. Now, here follows the point of interest to you: +such pillars, or standing stones, have no connection with +graves. The most elaborate grave that I have ever seen in +the group—to be certain—is in the form of a <i>raised +border</i> of gravel, usually strewn with broken glass. +One, of which I cannot be sure that it was a grave, for I was +told by one that it was, and by another <a +name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 200</span>that it was +not—consisted of a mound about breast high in an excavated +taro swamp, on the top of which was a child’s house, or +rather <i>maniapa</i>—that is to say, shed, or open house, +such as is used in the group for social or political +gatherings—so small that only a child could creep under its +eaves. I have heard of another great tomb on Apemama, which +I did not see; but here again, by all accounts, no sign of a +standing stone. My report would be—no connection +between standing stones and sepulture. I shall, however, +send on the terms of the problem to a highly intelligent resident +trader, who knows more than perhaps any one living, white or +native, of the Gilbert group; and you shall have the +result. In Samoa, whither I return for good, I shall myself +make inquiries; up to now, I have neither seen nor heard of any +standing stones in that group.—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Charles Fairchild</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Union Club</i>, <i>Sydney</i> +[<i>September</i> 1890].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MRS. FAIRCHILD</span>,—I +began a letter to you on board the <i>Janet Nicoll</i> on my last +cruise, wrote, I believe, two sheets, and ruthlessly destroyed +the flippant trash. Your last has given me great pleasure +and some pain, for it increased the consciousness of my +neglect. Now, this must go to you, whatever it is like.</p> +<p>. . . You are quite right; our civilisation is a hollow fraud, +all the fun of life is lost by it; all it gains is that a larger +number of persons can continue to be contemporaneously unhappy on +the surface of the globe. O, unhappy!—there is a big +word and a false—continue to be not nearly—by about +twenty per cent.—so happy as they might be: that would be +nearer the mark.</p> +<p>When—observe that word, which I will write again and +larger—<span class="GutSmall">WHEN</span> you come to see +us in Samoa, you will see for yourself a healthy and happy +people.</p> +<p><a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 201</span>You +see, you are one of the very few of our friends rich enough to +come and see us; and when my house is built, and the road is +made, and we have enough fruit planted and poultry and pigs +raised, it is undeniable that you must come—must is the +word; that is the way in which I speak to ladies. You and +Fairchild, anyway—perhaps my friend Blair—we’ll +arrange details in good time. It will be the salvation of +your souls, and make you willing to die.</p> +<p>Let me tell you this: In ’74 or 5 there came to stay +with my father and mother a certain Mr. Seed, a prime minister or +something of New Zealand. He spotted what my complaint was; +told me that I had no business to stay in Europe; that I should +find all I cared for, and all that was good for me, in the +Navigator Islands; sat up till four in the morning persuading me, +demolishing my scruples. And I resisted: I refused to go so +far from my father and mother. O, it was virtuous, and O, +wasn’t it silly! But my father, who was always my +dearest, got to his grave without that pang; and now in 1890, I +(or what is left of me) go at last to the Navigator +Islands. God go with us! It is but a Pisgah sight +when all is said; I go there only to grow old and die; but when +you come, you will see it is a fair place for the purpose.</p> +<p>Flaubert <a name="citation201"></a><a href="#footnote201" +class="citation">[201]</a> has not turned up; I hope he will +soon; I knew of him only through Maxime Descamps.—With +kindest messages to yourself and all of yours, I remain,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +209</span>XI<br /> +LIFE IN SAMOA,<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">NOVEMBER 1890–DECEMBER +1892</span></h2> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Apia</i>, +<i>Samoa</i>, <i>Nov.</i> 7, 1890.</p> +<p>I <span class="smcap">wish</span> you to add to the words at +the end of the prologue; they run, I think, thus, ‘And this +is the yarn of Loudon Dodd’; add, ‘not as he told, +but as he wrote it afterwards for his diversion.’ +This becomes the more needful, because, when all is done, I shall +probably revert to Tai-o-hae, and give final details about the +characters in the way of a conversation between Dodd and +Havers. These little snippets of information and +<i>faits-divers</i> have always a disjointed, broken-backed +appearance; yet, readers like them. In this book we have +introduced so many characters, that this kind of epilogue will be +looked for; and I rather hope, looking far ahead, that I can +lighten it in dialogue.</p> +<p>We are well past the middle now. How does it strike you? +and can you guess my mystery? It will make a fattish +volume!</p> +<p>I say, have you ever read the <i>Highland Widow</i>? I +never had till yesterday: I am half inclined, bar a trip or two, +to think it Scott’s masterpiece; and it has the name of a +failure! Strange things are readers.</p> +<p>I expect proofs and revises in duplicate.</p> +<p>We have now got into a small barrack at our place. We +see the sea six hundred feet below filling the end of two vales +of forest. On one hand the mountain runs above us some +thousand feet higher; great trees stand round us in our clearing; +there is an endless voice of birds; I have never lived in such a +heaven; just now, I have fever, which mitigates but not destroys +my gusto in my circumstances.—You may envy</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>. . . O, I don’t know if I mentioned that having seen +your new tail to the magazine, I cried off interference, at least +<a name="page210"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 210</span>for this +trip. Did I ask you to send me my books and papers, and all +the bound volumes of the mag.? <i>quorum pars</i>. I might +add that were there a good book or so—new—I +don’t believe there is—such would be welcome.</p> +<p>I desire—I positively begin to awake—to be +remembered to Scribner, Low, St. Gaudens, Russell Sullivan. +Well, well, you fellows have the feast of reason and the flow of +soul; I have a better-looking place and climate: you should hear +the birds on the hill now! The day has just wound up with a +shower; it is still light without, though I write within here at +the cheek of a lamp; my wife and an invaluable German are +wrestling about bread on the back verandah; and how the birds and +the frogs are rattling, and piping, and hailing from the +woods! Here and there a throaty chuckle; here and there, +cries like those of jolly children who have lost their way; here +and there, the ringing sleigh-bell of the tree frog. Out +and away down below me on the sea it is still raining; it will be +wet under foot on schooners, and the house will leak; how well I +know that! Here the showers only patter on the iron roof, +and sometimes roar; and within, the lamp burns steady on the +tafa-covered walls, with their dusky tartan patterns, and the +book-shelves with their thin array of books; and no squall can +rout my house or bring my heart into my mouth.—The +well-pleased South Sea Islander,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page211"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 211</span>[<i>Vailima</i>, <i>December</i> +1890.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BURLINGAME</span>,—By +some diabolical accident, I have mislaid your last. What +was in it? I know not, and here I am caught unexpectedly by +the American mail, a week earlier than by computation. The +computation, not the mail, is supposed to be in error. The +vols. of <i>Scribner’s</i> have arrived, and present a +noble appearance in my house, which is not a noble structure at +present. But by autumn we hope to be sprawling in our +verandah, twelve feet, sir, by eighty-eight in front, and +seventy-two on the flank; view of the sea and mountains, sunrise, +moonrise, and the German fleet at anchor three miles away in Apia +harbour. I hope some day to offer you a bowl of kava there, +or a slice of a pineapple, or some lemonade from my own +hedge. ‘I know a hedge where the lemons +grow’—<i>Shakespeare</i>. My house at this +moment smells of them strong; and the rain, which a while ago +roared there, now rings in minute drops upon the iron roof. +I have no <i>Wrecker</i> for you this mail, other things having +engaged me. I was on the whole rather relieved you did not +vote for regular papers, as I feared the traces. It is my +design from time to time to write a paper of a reminiscential +(beastly word) description; some of them I could scarce publish +from different considerations; but some of them—for +instance, my long experience of gambling places—Homburg, +Wiesbaden, Baden-Baden, old Monaco, and new Monte +Carlo—would make good magazine padding, if I got the stuff +handled the right way. I never could fathom why verse was +put in magazines; it has something to do with the making-up, has +it not? I am scribbling a lot just now; if you are taken +badly that way, apply to the South Seas. I could send you +some, I believe, anyway, only none of it is thoroughly +ripe. If kept back the volume of ballads, I’ll soon +make it a respectable size if this fit continue. By the +next mail you may expect some more <a name="page212"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 212</span><i>Wrecker</i>, or I shall be +displeased. Probably no more than a chapter, however, for +it is a hard one, and I am denuded of my proofs, my collaborator +having walked away with them to England; hence some trouble in +catching the just note.</p> +<p>I am a mere farmer: my talk, which would scarce interest you +on Broadway, is all of fuafua and tuitui, and black boys, and +planting and weeding, and axes and cutlasses; my hands are +covered with blisters and full of thorns; letters are, doubtless, +a fine thing, so are beer and skittles, but give me farmering in +the tropics for real interest. Life goes in enchantment; I +come home to find I am late for dinner; and when I go to bed at +night, I could cry for the weariness of my loins and +thighs. Do not speak to me of vexation, the life brims with +it, but with living interest fairly.</p> +<p>Christmas I go to Auckland, to meet Tamate, the New Guinea +missionary, a man I love. The rest of my life is a prospect +of much rain, much weeding and making of paths, a little letters, +and devilish little to eat.—I am, my dear Burlingame, with +messages to all whom it may concern, very sincerely yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Apia</i>, +<i>Samoa</i>, <i>December</i> 29<i>th</i>, 1890.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENRY JAMES</span>,—It is +terrible how little everybody writes, and how much of that little +disappears in the capacious maw of the Post Office. Many +letters, both from and to me, I now know to have been lost in +transit: my eye is on the Sydney Post Office, a large ungainly <a +name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 213</span>structure +with a tower, as being not a hundred miles from the scene of +disappearance; but then I have no proof. <i>The Tragic +Muse</i> you announced to me as coming; I had already ordered it +from a Sydney bookseller: about two months ago he advised me that +his copy was in the post; and I am still tragically museless.</p> +<p>News, news, news. What do we know of yours? What +do you care for ours? We are in the midst of the rainy +season, and dwell among alarms of hurricanes, in a very unsafe +little two-storied wooden box 650 feet above and about three +miles from the sea-beach. Behind us, till the other slope +of the island, desert forest, peaks, and loud torrents; in front +green slopes to the sea, some fifty miles of which we +dominate. We see the ships as they go out and in to the +dangerous roadstead of Apia; and if they lie far out, we can even +see their topmasts while they are at anchor. Of sounds of +men, beyond those of our own labourers, there reach us, at very +long intervals, salutes from the warships in harbour, the bell of +the cathedral church, and the low of the conch-shell calling the +labour boys on the German plantations. Yesterday, which was +Sunday—the <i>quantième</i> is most likely +erroneous; you can now correct it—we had a +visitor—Baker of Tonga. Heard you ever of him? +He is a great man here: he is accused of theft, rape, judicial +murder, private poisoning, abortion, misappropriation of public +moneys—oddly enough, not forgery, nor arson: you would be +amused if you knew how thick the accusations fly in this South +Sea world. I make no doubt my own character is something +illustrious; or if not yet, there is a good time coming.</p> +<p>But all our resources have not of late been Pacific. We +have had enlightened society: La Farge the painter, and your +friend Henry Adams: a great privilege—would it might +endure. I would go oftener to see them, but the place is +awkward to reach on horseback. I had to swim my horse the +last time I went to dinner; and as I have not yet returned the +clothes I had to borrow, I dare not <a name="page214"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 214</span>return in the same plight: it seems +inevitable—as soon as the wash comes in, I plump straight +into the American consul’s shirt or trousers! They, I +believe, would come oftener to see me but for the horrid doubt +that weighs upon our commissariat department; we have +<i>often</i> almost nothing to eat; a guest would simply break +the bank; my wife and I have dined on one avocado pear; I have +several times dined on hard bread and onions. What would +you do with a guest at such narrow seasons?—eat him? or +serve up a labour boy fricasseed?</p> +<p>Work? work is now arrested, but I have written, I should +think, about thirty chapters of the South Sea book; they will all +want rehandling, I dare say. Gracious, what a strain is a +long book! The time it took me to design this volume, +before I could dream of putting pen to paper, was excessive; and +then think of writing a book of travels on the spot, when I am +continually extending my information, revising my opinions, and +seeing the most finely finished portions of my work come part by +part in pieces. Very soon I shall have no opinions +left. And without an opinion, how to string artistically +vast accumulations of fact? Darwin said no one could +observe without a theory; I suppose he was right; ’tis a +fine point of metaphysic; but I will take my oath, no man can +write without one—at least the way he would like to, and my +theories melt, melt, melt, and as they melt the thaw-waters wash +down my writing, and leave unideal tracts—wastes instead of +cultivated farms.</p> +<p>Kipling is by far the most promising young man who has +appeared since—ahem—I appeared. He amazes me by +his precocity and various endowment. But he alarms me by +his copiousness and haste. He should shield his fire with +both hands ‘and draw up all his strength and sweetness in +one ball.’ (‘Draw all his strength and all His +sweetness up into one ball’? I cannot remember +Marvell’s words.) So the critics have been saying to +me; but I was never capable of—and surely never guilty +of—<a name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +215</span>such a debauch of production. At this rate his +works will soon fill the habitable globe; and surely he was armed +for better conflicts than these succinct sketches and flying +leaves of verse? I look on, I admire, I rejoice for myself; +but in a kind of ambition we all have for our tongue and +literature I am wounded. If I had this man’s +fertility and courage, it seems to me I could heave a +pyramid.</p> +<p>Well, we begin to be the old fogies now; and it was high time +<i>something</i> rose to take our places. Certainly Kipling +has the gifts; the fairy godmothers were all tipsy at his +christening: what will he do with them?</p> +<p>Goodbye, my dear James; find an hour to write to us, and +register your letter.—Yours affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Rudyard Kipling</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Vailima</i>, 1891.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">SIR</span>,—I cannot call to mind +having written you, but I am so throng with occupation this may +have fallen aside. I never heard tell I had any friends in +Ireland, and I am led to understand you are come of no +considerable family. The gentleman I now serve with assures +me, however, you are a very pretty fellow and your letter +deserves to be remarked. It’s true he is himself a +man of a <a name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +216</span>very low descent upon the one side; though upon the +other he counts cousinship with a gentleman, my very good friend, +the late Mr. Balfour of the Shaws, in the Lothian; which I should +be wanting in good fellowship to forget. He tells me +besides you are a man of your hands; I am not informed of your +weapon; but if all be true it sticks in my mind I would be ready +to make exception in your favour, and meet you like one gentleman +with another. I suppose this’ll be your purpose in +your favour, which I could very ill make out; it’s one I +would be sweir to baulk you of. It seems, Mr. McIlvaine, +which I take to be your name, you are in the household of a +gentleman of the name of Coupling: for whom my friend is very +much engaged. The distances being very uncommodious, I +think it will be maybe better if we leave it to these two to +settle all that’s necessary to honour. I would have +you to take heed it’s a very unusual condescension on my +part, that bear a King’s name; and for the matter of that I +think shame to be mingled with a person of the name of Coupling, +which is doubtless a very good house but one I never heard tell +of, any more than Stevenson. But your purpose being +laudable, I would be sorry (as the word goes) to cut off my nose +to spite my face.—I am, Sir, your humble servant,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">A. <span +class="smcap">Stewart</span>,<br /> +<i>Chevalier de St. Louis</i>.</p> +<p><i>To Mr. M’Ilvaine</i>,<br /> + <i>Gentleman Private in a foot +regiment</i>,<br /> + <i>under cover +to Mr. Coupling</i>.</p> +<p>He has read me some of your Barrack Room Ballants, which are +not of so noble a strain as some of mine in the Gaelic, but I +could set some of them to the pipes if this rencounter goes as +it’s to be desired. Let’s first, as I +understand you to move, do each other this rational courtesys; +and if either will survive, we may grow better acquaint. +For your tastes for what’s martial and for poetry agree +with mine.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">A. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +217</span><span class="smcap">to Marcel Schwob</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Sydney</i>, <i>January</i> +19<i>th</i>, 1891.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR +SIR</span>,—<i>Sapristi</i>, <i>comme vous y +allez</i>! Richard <span class="GutSmall">III</span>. and +Dumas, with all my heart; but not Hamlet. Hamlet is great +literature; Richard <span class="GutSmall">III</span>. a big, +black, gross, sprawling melodrama, writ with infinite spirit but +with no refinement or philosophy by a man who had the world, +himself, mankind, and his trade still to learn. I prefer +the Vicomte de Bragelonne to Richard <span +class="GutSmall">III</span>.; it is better done of its kind: I +simply do not mention the Vicomte in the same part of the +building with Hamlet, or Lear, or Othello, or any of those +masterpieces that Shakespeare survived to give us.</p> +<p>Also, <i>comme vous y allez</i> in my commendation! I +fear my <i>solide éducation classique</i> had best be +described, like Shakespeare’s, as ‘little Latin and +no Greek,’ and I was educated, let me inform you, for an +engineer. I shall tell my bookseller to send you a copy of +<i>Memories and Portraits</i>, where you will see something of my +descent and education, as it was, and hear me at length on my +dear Vicomte. I give you permission gladly to take your +choice out of my works, and translate what you shall prefer, too +much honoured that so clever a young man should think it worth +the pains. My own choice would lie between <i>Kidnapped</i> +and the <i>Master of Ballantrae</i>. Should you choose the +latter, pray do not let Mrs. Henry thrust the sword up to the +hilt in the frozen ground—one of my inconceivable blunders, +an exaggeration to stagger Hugo. Say ‘she sought to +thrust it in the ground.’ In both these works you +should be prepared for Scotticisms used deliberately.</p> +<p>I fear my stepson will not have found time to get to Paris; he +was overwhelmed with occupation, and is already on his voyage +back. We live here in a beautiful land, amid a beautiful +and interesting people. The life is still very hard: my +wife and I live in a two-roomed cottage, <a +name="page218"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 218</span>about three +miles and six hundred and fifty feet above the sea; we have had +to make the road to it; our supplies are very imperfect; in the +wild weather of this (the hurricane) season we have much +discomfort: one night the wind blew in our house so outrageously +that we must sit in the dark; and as the sound of the rain on the +roof made speech inaudible, you may imagine we found the evening +long. All these things, however, are pleasant to me. +You say <i>l’artiste inconscient</i> set off to travel: you +do not divide me right. 0.6 of me is artist; 0.4, +adventurer. First, I suppose, come letters; then adventure; +and since I have indulged the second part, I think the formula +begins to change: 0.55 of an artist, 0.45 of the adventurer were +nearer true. And if it had not been for my small strength, +I might have been a different man in all things.</p> +<p>Whatever you do, do not neglect to send me what you publish on +Villon: I look forward to that with lively interest. I have +no photograph at hand, but I will send one when I can. It +would be kind if you would do the like, for I do not see much +chance of our meeting in the flesh: and a name, and a +handwriting, and an address, and even a style? I know about +as much of Tacitus, and more of Horace; it is not enough between +contemporaries, such as we still are. I have just +remembered another of my books, which I re-read the other day, +and thought in places good—<i>Prince Otto</i>. It is +not as good as either of the others; but it has one +recommendation—it has female parts, so it might perhaps +please better in France.</p> +<p>I will ask Chatto to send you, then—<i>Prince Otto</i>, +<i>Memories and Portraits</i>, <i>Underwoods</i>, and +<i>Ballads</i>, none of which you seem to have seen. They +will be too late for the New Year: let them be an Easter +present.</p> +<p>You must translate me soon; you will soon have better to do +than to transverse the work of others.—Yours very +truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>,<br /> +With the worst pen in the South Pacific.</p> +<h3><a name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +219</span><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>SS.</i> +‘<i>Lübeck</i>,’ <i>at sea</i> [<i>on the return +voyage from Sydney</i>, <i>March</i> 1891].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—Perhaps +in my old days I do grow irascible; ‘the old man +virulent’ has long been my pet name for myself. Well, +the temper is at least all gone now; time is good at lowering +these distemperatures; far better is a sharp sickness, and I am +just (and scarce) afoot again after a smoking hot little malady +at Sydney. And the temper being gone, I still think the +same. . . . We have not our parents for ever; we are never +very good to them; when they go and we have lost our front-file +man, we begin to feel all our neglects mighty sensibly. I +propose a proposal. My mother is here on board with me; +to-day for once I mean to make her as happy as I am able, and to +do that which I know she likes. You, on the other hand, go +and see your father, and do ditto, and give him a real good hour +or two. We shall both be glad hereafter.—Yours +ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to H. B. Baildon</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Upolu</i> +[<i>Undated</i>, <i>but written in</i> 1891].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BAILDON</span>,—This is a +real disappointment. It was so long since we had met, I was +anxious to see where time had carried and stranded us. Last +time we saw each other—it must have been all ten years ago, +as we were new to the thirties—it was only for a moment, +and now we’re in the forties, and before very long we shall +be in our graves. Sick and well, I have had a splendid life +of it, grudge nothing, regret very little—and then only +some <a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +220</span>little corners of misconduct for which I deserve +hanging, and must infallibly be damned—and, take it all +over, damnation and all, would hardly change with any man of my +time, unless perhaps it were Gordon or our friend Chalmers: a man +I admire for his virtues, love for his faults, and envy for the +really A1 life he has, with everything heart—my heart, I +mean—could wish. It is curious to think you will read +this in the grey metropolis; go the first grey, east-windy day +into the Caledonian Station, if it looks at all as it did of +yore: I met Satan there. And then go and stand by the +cross, and remember the other one—him that went +down—my brother, Robert Fergusson. It is a pity you +had not made me out, and seen me as patriarch and planter. +I shall look forward to some record of your time with Chalmers: +you can’t weary me of that fellow, he is as big as a house +and far bigger than any church, where no man warms his +hands. Do you know anything of Thomson? Of A—, +B—, C—, D—, E—, F—, at all? +As I write C.’s name mustard rises my nose; I have never +forgiven that weak, amiable boy a little trick he played me when +I could ill afford it: I mean that whenever I think of it, some +of the old wrath kindles, not that I would hurt the poor soul, if +I got the world with it. And Old X—? Is he +still afloat? Harmless bark! I gather you ain’t +married yet, since your sister, to whom I ask to be remembered, +goes with you. Did you see a silly tale, <i>John +Nicholson’s Predicament</i>, <a name="citation220"></a><a +href="#footnote220" class="citation">[220]</a> or some such name, +in which I made free with your home at Murrayfield? There +is precious little sense in it, but it might amuse. +Cassell’s published it in a thing called <i>Yule-Tide</i> +years ago, and nobody that ever I heard of read or has ever seen +<i>Yule-Tide</i>. It is addressed to a class we never +met—readers of Cassell’s series and that class of +conscientious chaff, and my tale was dull, though I don’t +recall that it was conscientious. Only, there’s the +house at Murrayfield and a dead body in it. Glad the <a +name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +221</span><i>Ballads</i> amused you. They failed to +entertain a coy public, at which I wondered, not that I set much +account by my verses, which are the verses of Prosator; but I do +know how to tell a yarn, and two of the yarns are great. +<i>Rahero</i> is for its length a perfect folk-tale: savage and +yet fine, full of tailforemost morality, ancient as the granite +rocks; if the historian, not to say the politician, could get +that yarn into his head, he would have learned some of his A B C. +But the average man at home cannot understand antiquity; he is +sunk over the ears in Roman civilisation; and a tale like that of +<i>Rahero</i> falls on his ears inarticulate. The +<i>Spectator</i> said there was no psychology in it; that +interested me much: my grandmother (as I used to call that able +paper, and an able paper it is, and a fair one) cannot so much as +observe the existence of savage psychology when it is put before +it. I am at bottom a psychologist and ashamed of it; the +tale seized me one-third because of its picturesque features, +two-thirds because of its astonishing psychology, and the +<i>Spectator</i> says there’s none. I am going on +with a lot of island work, exulting in the knowledge of a new +world, ‘a new created world’ and new men; and I am +sure my income will <span class="GutSmall">DECLINE</span> and +<span class="GutSmall">FALL</span> off; for the effort of +comprehension is death to the intelligent public, and sickness to +the dull.</p> +<p>I do not know why I pester you with all this trash, above all +as you deserve nothing. I give you my warm <i>talofa</i> +(‘my love to you,’ Samoan salutation). Write me +again when the spirit moves you. And some day, if I still +live, make out the trip again and let us hob-a-nob with our grey +pows on my verandah.—Yours sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. Craibe Angus</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page222"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 222</span><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>April</i> 1891.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. ANGUS</span>,—Surely I +remember you! It was W. C. Murray who made us acquainted, +and we had a pleasant crack. I see your poet is not yet +dead. I remember even our talk—or you would not think +of trusting that invaluable <i>Jolly Beggars</i> to the +treacherous posts, and the perils of the sea, and the +carelessness of authors. I love the idea, but I could not +bear the risk. However—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Hale be your heart, hale be your +fiddle—’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>it was kindly thought upon.</p> +<p>My interest in Burns is, as you suppose, perennial. I +would I could be present at the exhibition, with the purpose of +which I heartily sympathise; but the <i>Nancy</i> has not waited +in vain for me, I have followed my chest, the anchor is weighed +long ago, I have said my last farewell to the hills and the +heather and the lynns: like Leyden, I have gone into far lands to +die, not stayed like Burns to mingle in the end with Scottish +soil. I shall not even return like Scott for the last +scene. Burns Exhibitions are all over. ’Tis a +far cry to Lochow from tropical Vailima.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘But still our hearts are true, our hearts +are Highland,<br /> +And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>When your hand is in, will you remember our poor Edinburgh +Robin? Burns alone has been just to his promise; follow +Burns, he knew best, he knew whence he drew fire—from the +poor, white-faced, drunken, vicious boy that raved himself to +death in the Edinburgh madhouse. Surely there is more to be +gleaned about Fergusson, and surely it is high time the task was +set about. I <a name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +223</span>may tell you (because your poet is not dead) something +of how I feel: we are three Robins who have touched the Scots +lyre this last century. Well, the one is the world’s, +he did it, he came off, he is for ever; but I and the +other—ah! what bonds we have—born in the same city; +both sickly, both pestered, one nearly to madness, one to the +madhouse, with a damnatory creed; both seeing the stars and the +dawn, and wearing shoe-leather on the same ancient stones, under +the same pends, down the same closes, where our common ancestors +clashed in their armour, rusty or bright. And the old +Robin, who was before Burns and the flood, died in his acute, +painful youth, and left the models of the great things that were +to come; and the new, who came after, outlived his greensickness, +and has faintly tried to parody the finished work. If you +will collect the strays of Robin Fergusson, fish for material, +collect any last re-echoing of gossip, command me to do what you +prefer—to write the preface—to write the whole if you +prefer: anything, so that another monument (after Burns’s) +be set up to my unhappy predecessor on the causey of Auld +Reekie. You will never know, nor will any man, how deep +this feeling is: I believe Fergusson lives in me. I do, but +tell it not in Gath; every man has these fanciful superstitions, +coming, going, but yet enduring; only most men are so wise (or +the poet in them so dead) that they keep their follies for +themselves.—I am, yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>April</i> +1891.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—I have to +thank you and Mrs. Gosse for many mementoes, chiefly for your +<i>Life</i> of your father. There is a very delicate task, +very delicately done. I noted one or two carelessnesses, +which I meant to point out to you for another edition; but I find +I lack the time, <a name="page224"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +224</span>and you will remark them for yourself against a new +edition. They were two, or perhaps three, flabbinesses of +style which (in your work) amazed me. Am I right in +thinking you were a shade bored over the last chapters? or was it +my own fault that made me think them susceptible of a more +athletic compression? (The flabbinesses were not there, I +think, but in the more admirable part, where they showed the +bigger.) Take it all together, the book struck me as if you +had been hurried at the last, but particularly hurried over the +proofs, and could still spend a very profitable fortnight in +earnest revision and (towards the end) heroic compression. +The book, in design, subject, and general execution, is well +worth the extra trouble. And even if I were wrong in +thinking it specially wanted, it will not be lost; for do we not +know, in Flaubert’s dread confession, that ‘prose is +never done’? What a medium to work in, for a man +tired, perplexed among different aims and subjects, and spurred +by the immediate need of ‘siller’! However, +it’s mine for what it’s worth; and it’s one of +yours, the devil take it; and you know, as well as Flaubert, and +as well as me, that it is <i>never done</i>; in other words, it +is a torment of the pit, usually neglected by the bards who +(lucky beggars!) approached the Styx in measure. I speak +bitterly at the moment, having just detected in myself the last +fatal symptom, three blank verses in succession—and I +believe, God help me, a hemistich at the tail of them; hence I +have deposed the labourer, come out of hell by my private trap, +and now write to you from my little place in purgatory. But +I prefer hell: would I could always dig in those red +coals—or else be at sea in a schooner, bound for isles +unvisited: to be on shore and not to work is +emptiness—suicidal vacancy.</p> +<p>I was the more interested in your <i>Life</i> of your father, +because I meditate one of mine, or rather of my family. I +have no such materials as you, and (our objections already made) +your attack fills me with despair; it is <a +name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 225</span>direct and +elegant, and your style is always admirable to me—lenity, +lucidity, usually a high strain of breeding, an elegance that has +a pleasant air of the accidental. But beware of purple +passages. I wonder if you think as well of your purple +passages as I do of mine? I wonder if you think as ill of +mine as I do of yours? I wonder; I can tell you at least +what is wrong with yours—they are treated in the spirit of +verse. The spirit—I don’t mean the measure, I +don’t mean you fall into bastard cadences; what I mean is +that they seem vacant and smoothed out, ironed, if you +like. And in a style which (like yours) aims more and more +successfully at the academic, one purple word is already much; +three—a whole phrase—is inadmissible. Wed +yourself to a clean austerity: that is your force. Wear a +linen ephod, splendidly candid. Arrange its folds, but do +not fasten it with any brooch. I swear to you, in your +talking robes, there should be no patch of adornment; and where +the subject forces, let it force you no further than it must; and +be ready with a twinkle of your pleasantry. Yours is a fine +tool, and I see so well how to hold it; I wonder if you see how +to hold mine? But then I am to the neck in prose, and just +now in the ‘dark <i>interstylar</i> cave,’ all +methods and effects wooing me, myself in the midst impotent to +follow any. I look for dawn presently, and a full flowing +river of expression, running whither it wills. But these +useless seasons, above all, when a man <i>must</i> continue to +spoil paper, are infinitely weary.</p> +<p>We are in our house after a fashion; without furniture, +’tis true, camping there, like the family after a +sale. But the bailiff has not yet appeared; he will +probably come after. The place is beautiful beyond dreams; +some fifty miles of the Pacific spread in front; deep woods all +round; a mountain making in the sky a profile of huge trees upon +our left; about us, the little island of our clearing, studded +with brave old gentlemen (or ladies, or ‘the twa o’ +them’) whom we have spared. It is a <a +name="page226"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 226</span>good place +to be in; night and morning, we have Theodore Rousseaus (always a +new one) hung to amuse us on the walls of the world; and the +moon—this is our good season, we have a moon just +now—makes the night a piece of heaven. It amazes me +how people can live on in the dirty north; yet if you saw our +rainy season (which is really a caulker for wind, wet, and +darkness—howling showers, roaring winds, pit-blackness at +noon) you might marvel how we could endure that. And we +can’t. But there’s a winter everywhere; only +ours is in the summer. Mark my words: there will be a +winter in heaven—and in hell. <i>Cela rentre dans les +procédés du bon Dieu</i>; <i>et vous +verrez</i>! There’s another very good thing about +Vailima, I am away from the little bubble of the literary +life. It is not all beer and skittles, is it? By the +by, my <i>Ballads</i> seem to have been dam bad; all the crickets +sing so in their crickety papers; and I have no ghost of an idea +on the point myself: verse is always to me the unknowable. +You might tell me how it strikes a professional bard: not that it +really matters, for, of course, good or bad, I don’t think +I shall get into <i>that</i> galley any more. But I should +like to know if you join the shrill chorus of the crickets. +The crickets are the devil in all to you: ’tis a strange +thing, they seem to rejoice like a strong man in their +injustice. I trust you got my letter about your Browning +book. In case it missed, I wish to say again that your +publication of Browning’s kind letter, as an illustration +of <i>his</i> character, was modest, proper, and in radiant good +taste.—In Witness whereof, etc., etc.,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Rawlinson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page227"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 227</span><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Apia</i>, +<i>Samoa</i>, <i>April</i> 1891.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MAY</span>,—I never think +of you by any more ceremonial name, so I will not pretend. +There is not much chance that I shall forget you until the time +comes for me to forget all this little turmoil in a corner +(though indeed I have been in several corners) of an +inconsiderable planet. You remain in my mind for a good +reason, having given me (in so short a time) the most delightful +pleasure. I shall remember, and you must still be +beautiful. The truth is, you must grow more so, or you will +soon be less. It is not so easy to be a flower, even when +you bear a flower’s name. And if I admired you so +much, and still remember you, it is not because of your face, but +because you were then worthy of it, as you must still +continue.</p> +<p>Will you give my heartiest congratulations to Mr. S.? He +has my admiration; he is a brave man; when I was young, I should +have run away from the sight of you, pierced with the sense of my +unfitness. He is more wise and manly. What a good +husband he will have to be! And you—what a good +wife! Carry your love tenderly. I will never forgive +him—or you—it is in both your hands—if the face +that once gladdened my heart should be changed into one sour or +sorrowful.</p> +<p>What a person you are to give flowers! It was so I first +heard of you; and now you are giving the May flower!</p> +<p>Yes, Skerryvore has passed; it was, for us. But I wish +you could see us in our new home on the mountain, in the middle +of great woods, and looking far out over the Pacific. When +Mr. S. is very rich, he must bring you round the world and let +you see it, and see the old gentleman and the old lady. I +mean to live quite a long while yet, and my wife must do the +same, or else I couldn’t manage it; so, you see, you will +have plenty of time; and it’s a pity not to see the most +beautiful places, and the most beautiful people moving there, and +the real stars and moon <a name="page228"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 228</span>overhead, instead of the tin +imitations that preside over London. I do not think my wife +very well; but I am in hopes she will now have a little +rest. It has been a hard business, above all for her; we +lived four months in the hurricane season in a miserable house, +overborne with work, ill-fed, continually worried, drowned in +perpetual rain, beaten upon by wind, so that we must sit in the +dark in the evenings; and then I ran away, and she had a month of +it alone. Things go better now; the back of the work is +broken; and we are still foolish enough to look forward to a +little peace. I am a very different person from the +prisoner of Skerryvore. The other day I was +three-and-twenty hours in an open boat; it made me pretty ill; +but fancy its not killing me half-way! It is like a fairy +story that I should have recovered liberty and strength, and +should go round again among my fellow-men, boating, riding, +bathing, toiling hard with a wood-knife in the forest. I +can wish you nothing more delightful than my fortune in life; I +wish it you; and better, if the thing be possible.</p> +<p>Lloyd is tinkling below me on the typewriter; my wife has just +left the room; she asks me to say she would have written had she +been well enough, and hopes to do it still.—Accept the best +wishes of your admirer,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Adelaide Boodle</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Vailima</i>, <i>May</i> +1891.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR ADELAIDE</span>,—I will +own you just did manage to tread on my gouty toe; and I beg to +assure you with most people I should simply have turned away and +said no more. My cudgelling was therefore in the nature of +a caress or testimonial.</p> +<p>God forbid, I should seem to judge for you on such a <a +name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 229</span>point; it +was what you seemed to set forth as your reasons that fluttered +my old Presbyterian spirit—for, mind you, I am a child of +the Covenanters—whom I do not love, but they are mine after +all, my father’s and my mother’s—and they had +their merits too, and their ugly beauties, and grotesque +heroisms, that I love them for, the while I laugh at them; but in +their name and mine do what you think right, and let the world +fall. That is the privilege and the duty of private +persons; and I shall think the more of you at the greater +distance, because you keep a promise to your fellow-man, your +helper and creditor in life, by just so much as I was tempted to +think the less of you (O not much, or I would never have been +angry) when I thought you were the swallower of a (tinfoil) +formula.</p> +<p>I must say I was uneasy about my letter, not because it was +too strong as an expression of my unregenerate sentiments, but +because I knew full well it should be followed by something +kinder. And the mischief has been in my health. I +fell sharply sick in Sydney, was put aboard the +<i>Lübeck</i> pretty bad, got to Vailima, hung on a month +there, and didn’t pick up as well as my work needed; set +off on a journey, gained a great deal, lost it again; and am back +at Vailima, still no good at my necessary work. I tell you +this for my imperfect excuse that I should not have written you +again sooner to remove the bad taste of my last.</p> +<p>A road has been called Adelaide Road; it leads from the back +of our house to the bridge, and thence to the garden, and by a +bifurcation to the pig pen. It is thus much traversed, +particularly by Fanny. An oleander, the only one of your +seeds that prospered in this climate, grows there; and the name +is now some week or ten days applied and published. <span +class="smcap">Adelaide Road</span> leads also into the bush, to +the banana patch, and by a second bifurcation over the left +branch of the stream to the plateau and the right hand of the +gorges. In short, it <a name="page230"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 230</span>leads to all sorts of good, and is, +besides, in itself a pretty winding path, bound downhill among +big woods to the margin of the stream.</p> +<p>What a strange idea, to think me a Jew-hater! Isaiah and +David and Heine are good enough for me; and I leave more +unsaid. Were I of Jew blood, I do not think I could ever +forgive the Christians; the ghettos would get in my nostrils like +mustard or lit gunpowder. Just so you as being a child of +the Presbytery, I retain—I need not dwell on that. +The ascendant hand is what I feel most strongly; I am bound in +and in with my forbears; were he one of mine, I should not be +struck at all by Mr. Moss of Bevis Marks, I should still see +behind him Moses of the Mount and the Tables and the shining +face. We are all nobly born; fortunate those who know it; +blessed those who remember.</p> +<p>I am, my dear Adelaide, most genuinely yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>Write by return to say you are better, and I will try to do +the same.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Vailima</i>], <i>Tuesday</i>, +19<i>th</i> <i>May</i> ’91.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—I +don’t know what you think of me, not having written to you +at all during your illness. I find two sheets begun with +your name, but that is no excuse. . . . I am keeping bravely; +getting about better, every day, and hope soon to be in my usual +fettle. My books begin to come; and I fell once more on the +Old Bailey session papers. I have 1778, 1784, and +1786. Should you be able to lay hands on any other volumes, +above all a little later, I should be very glad you should buy +them for me. I particularly want <i>one</i> or <i>two</i> +during <a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +231</span>the course of the Peninsular War. Come to think, +I ought rather to have communicated this want to Bain. +Would it bore you to communicate to that effect with the great +man? The sooner I have them, the better for me. +’Tis for Henry Shovel. But Henry Shovel has now +turned into a work called ‘The Shovels of Newton French: +Including Memoirs of Henry Shovel, a Private in the Peninsular +War,’ which work is to begin in 1664 with the marriage of +Skipper, afterwards Alderman Shovel of Bristol, Henry’s +great-great-grandfather, and end about 1832 with his own second +marriage to the daughter of his runaway aunt. Will the +public ever stand such an opus? Gude kens, but it tickles +me. Two or three historical personages will just appear: +Judge Jeffreys, Wellington, Colquhoun, Grant, and I think +Townsend the runner. I know the public won’t like it; +let ’em lump it then; I mean to make it good; it will be +more like a saga.—Adieu, yours ever affectionately,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i> [<i>Summer</i> +1891].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BURLINGAME</span>,—I find +among my grandfather’s papers his own reminiscences of his +voyage round the north with Sir Walter, eighty years ago, +<i>labuntur anni</i>! They are not remarkably good, but he +was not a bad observer, and several touches seem to me +speaking. It has occurred to me you might like them to +appear in the <i>Magazine</i>. If you would, kindly let me +know, and tell me how you would like it handled. My +grandad’s <span class="GutSmall">MS</span>. runs to between +six and seven thousand words, which I could abbreviate of +anecdotes that scarce touch Sir W. Would you like this +done? Would you like me to introduce the old +gentleman? I had something of the sort in my mind, and +could fill a few columns rather <i>à propos</i>. <a +name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 232</span>I give you +the first offer of this, according to your request; for though it +may forestall one of the interests of my biography, the thing +seems to me particularly suited for prior appearance in a +magazine.</p> +<p>I see the first number of the <i>Wrecker</i>; I thought it +went lively enough; and by a singular accident, the picture is +not unlike Tai-o-hae!</p> +<p>Thus we see the age of miracles, etc.—Yours very +sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>Proofs for next mail.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. Craibe Angus</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Summer</i> 1891.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. ANGUS</span>,—You can +use my letter as you will. The parcel has not come; pray +Heaven the next post bring it safe. Is it possible for me +to write a preface here? I will try if you like, if you +think I must: though surely there are Rivers in Assyria. Of +course you will send me sheets of the catalogue; I suppose it +(the preface) need not be long; perhaps it should be rather very +short? Be sure you give me your views upon these +points. Also tell me what names to mention among those of +your helpers, and do remember to register everything, else it is +not safe.</p> +<p>The true place (in my view) for a monument to Fergusson were +the churchyard of Haddington. But as that would perhaps not +carry many votes, I should say one of the two following +sites:—First, either as near the site of the old Bedlam as +we could get, or, second, beside the Cross, the heart of his +city. Upon this I would have a fluttering butterfly, and, I +suggest, the citation,</p> +<p class="poetry">Poor butterfly, thy case I mourn.</p> +<p>For the case of Fergusson is not one to pretend about. A +more miserable tragedy the sun never shone upon, or <a +name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 233</span>(in +consideration of our climate) I should rather say refused to +brighten.—Yours truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>Where Burns goes will not matter. He is no local poet, +like your Robin the First; he is general as the casing air. +Glasgow, as the chief city of Scottish men, would do well; but +for God’s sake, don’t let it be like the Glasgow +memorial to Knox: I remember, when I first saw this, laughing for +an hour by Shrewsbury clock.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to H. C. Ide</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Vailima</i>, <i>June</i> 19, +1891.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. IDE</span>,—Herewith +please find the <span class="smcap">Document</span>, which I +trust will prove sufficient in law. It seems to me very +attractive in its eclecticism; Scots, English, and Roman law +phrases are all indifferently introduced, and a quotation from +the works of Haynes Bayly can hardly fail to attract the +indulgence of the Bench.—Yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>I, Robert Louis Stevenson, Advocate of the Scots Bar, author +of <i>The Master of Ballantrae</i> and <i>Moral Emblems</i>, +stuck civil engineer, sole owner and patentee of the Palace and +Plantation known as Vailima in the island of Upolu, Samoa, a +British Subject, being in sound mind, and pretty well, I thank +you, in body:</p> +<p>In consideration that Miss Annie H. Ide, daughter of H. C. +Ide, in the town of Saint Johnsbury, in the county of Caledonia, +in the state of Vermont, United States of America, was born, out +of all reason, upon Christmas Day, and is therefore out of all +justice denied the consolation and profit of a proper +birthday;</p> +<p><a name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 234</span>And +considering that I, the said Robert Louis Stevenson, have +attained an age when O, we never mention it, and that I have now +no further use for a birthday of any description;</p> +<p>And in consideration that I have met H. C. Ide, the father of +the said Annie H. Ide, and found him about as white a land +commissioner as I require:</p> +<p><i>Have transferred</i>, and <i>do hereby transfer</i>, to the +said Annie H. Ide, <i>all and whole</i> my rights and priviledges +in the thirteenth day of November, formerly my birthday, now, +hereby, and henceforth, the birthday of the said Annie H. Ide, to +have, hold, exercise, and enjoy the same in the customary manner, +by the sporting of fine raiment, eating of rich meats, and +receipt of gifts, compliments, and copies of verse, according to +the manner of our ancestors;</p> +<p><i>And I direct</i> the said Annie H. Ide to add to the said +name of Annie H. Ide the name Louisa—at least in private; +and I charge her to use my said birthday with moderation and +humanity, <i>et tamquam bona filia familiæ</i>, the said +birthday not being so young as it once was, and having carried me +in a very satisfactory manner since I can remember;</p> +<p>And in case the said Annie H. Ide shall neglect or contravene +either of the above conditions, I hereby revoke the donation and +transfer my rights in the said birthday to the President of the +United States of America for the time being:</p> +<p>In witness whereof I have hereto set my hand and seal this +nineteenth day of June in the year of grace eighteen hundred and +ninety-one.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"> +<a href="images/p234b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Circle with word ‘seal’ in it" +title= +"Circle with word ‘seal’ in it" + src="images/p234s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>Witness</i>, <span class="smcap">Lloyd Osbourne</span>,</p> +<p><i>Witness</i>, <span class="smcap">Harold Watts</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +235</span><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Vailima</i>, <i>October</i> +1891.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENRY JAMES</span>,—From +this perturbed and hunted being expect but a line, and that line +shall be but a whoop for Adela. O she’s delicious, +delicious; I could live and die with Adela—die, rather the +better of the two; you never did a straighter thing, and never +will.</p> +<p><i>David Balfour</i>, second part of <i>Kidnapped</i>, is on +the stocks at last; and is not bad, I think. As for <i>The +Wrecker</i>, it’s a machine, you know—don’t +expect aught else—a machine, and a police machine; but I +believe the end is one of the most genuine butcheries in +literature; and we point to our machine with a modest pride, as +the only police machine without a villain. Our criminals +are a most pleasing crew, and leave the dock with scarce a stain +upon their character.</p> +<p>What a different line of country to be trying to draw Adela, +and trying to write the last four chapters of <i>The +Wrecker</i>! Heavens, it’s like two centuries; and +ours is such rude, transpontine business, aiming only at a +certain fervour of conviction and sense of energy and violence in +the men; and yours is so neat and bright and of so exquisite a +surface! Seems dreadful to send such a book to such an +author; but your name is on the list. And we do modestly +ask you to consider the chapters on the <i>Norah Creina</i> with +the study of Captain Nares, and the forementioned last four, with +their brutality of substance and the curious (and perhaps +unsound) technical manœuvre of running the story together +to a point as we go along, the narrative becoming more succinct +and the details fining off with every page.—Sworn affidavit +of</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p><a name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 236</span><i>No +person now alive has beaten Adela</i>: <i>I adore Adela and her +maker</i>. <i>Sic subscrib.</i></p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>A Sublime Poem to follow.</p> +<p class="poetry">Adela, Adela, Adela Chart,<br /> +What have you done to my elderly heart?<br /> +Of all the ladies of paper and ink<br /> +I count you the paragon, call you the pink.<br /> +The word of your brother depicts you in part:<br /> +‘You raving maniac!’ Adela Chart;<br /> +But in all the asylums that cumber the ground,<br /> +So delightful a maniac was ne’er to be found.</p> +<p class="poetry">I pore on you, dote on you, clasp you to +heart,<br /> +I laud, love, and laugh at you, Adela Chart,<br /> +And thank my dear maker the while I admire<br /> +That I can be neither your husband nor sire.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your husband’s, your sire’s were a +difficult part;<br /> +You’re a byway to suicide, Adela Chart;<br /> +But to read of, depicted by exquisite James,<br /> +O, sure you’re the flower and quintessence of dames.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Eructavit cor meum.</i></p> +<p>My heart was inditing a goodly matter about Adela Chart.</p> +<p class="poetry">Though oft I’ve been touched by the +volatile dart,<br /> +To none have I grovelled but Adela Chart,<br /> +There are passable ladies, no question, in art—<br /> +But where is the marrow of Adela Chart?<br /> +I dreamed that to Tyburn I passed in the cart—<br /> +I dreamed I was married to Adela Chart:<br /> +From the first I awoke with a palpable start,<br /> +The second dumfoundered me, Adela Chart!</p> +<p><a name="page237"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +237</span>Another verse bursts from me, you see; no end to the +violence of the Muse.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>October</i> 8<i>th</i>, 1891.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BURLINGAME</span>,—All +right, you shall have the <i>Tales of my Grandfather</i> soon, +but I guess we’ll try and finish off <i>The Wrecker</i> +first. <i>À propos</i> of whom, please send some +advanced sheets to Cassell’s—away ahead of +you—so that they may get a dummy out.</p> +<p>Do you wish to illustrate <i>My Grandfather</i>? He +mentions as excellent a portrait of Scott by Basil Hall’s +brother. I don’t think I ever saw this engraved; +would it not, if you could get track of it, prove a taking +embellishment? I suggest this for your consideration and +inquiry. A new portrait of Scott strikes me as good. +There is a hard, tough, constipated old portrait of my +grandfather hanging in my aunt’s house, Mrs. Alan +Stevenson, 16 St. Leonard’s Terrace, Chelsea, which has +never been engraved—the better portrait, Joseph’s +bust has been reproduced, I believe, twice—and which, I am +sure, my aunt would let you have a copy of. The plate could +be of use for the book when we get so far, and thus to place it +in the <i>Magazine</i> might be an actual saving.</p> +<p>I am swallowed up in politics for the first, I hope for the +last, time in my sublunary career. It is a painful, +thankless trade; but one thing that came up I could not pass in +silence. Much drafting, addressing, deputationising has +eaten up all my time, and again (to my contrition) I leave you +Wreckerless. As soon as the mail leaves I tackle it +straight.—Yours very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +238</span><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i> [<i>Autumn</i> +1891].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BURLINGAME</span>,—The +time draws nigh, the mail is near due, and I snatch a moment of +collapse so that you may have at least some sort of a scratch of +note along with the</p> +<p> end</p> + +<p> of</p> +<p style="text-align: center">The</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Wrecker.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Hurray!</p> +<p>which I mean to go herewith. It has taken me a devil of +a pull, but I think it’s going to be ready. If I did +not know you were on the stretch waiting for it and trembling for +your illustrations, I would keep it for another finish; but +things being as they are, I will let it go the best way I can get +it. I am now within two pages of the end of Chapter <span +class="GutSmall">XXV</span>., which is the last chapter, the end +with its gathering up of loose threads, being the dedication to +Low, and addressed to him: this is my last and best expedient for +the knotting up of these loose cards. ’Tis possible I +may not get that finished in time, in which case you’ll +receive only Chapters <span class="GutSmall">XXII</span>. to +<span class="GutSmall">XXV</span>. by this mail, which is all +that can be required for illustration.</p> +<p>I wish you would send me <i>Memoirs of Baron Marbot</i> +(French); <i>Introduction to the Study of the History of +Language</i>, Strong, Logeman & Wheeler; <i>Principles of +Psychology</i>, William James; Morris & Magnusson’s +<i>Saga Library</i>, any volumes that are out; George +Meredith’s <i>One of our Conquerors</i>; <i>Là +Bas</i>, by Huysmans (French); O’Connor Morris’s +<i>Great Commanders of Modern Times</i>; <i>Life’s +Handicap</i>, by Kipling; of Taine’s <i>Origines de la +France Contemporaine</i>, I have only as far as <i>la +Révolution</i>, vol. iii.; if another volume is out, +please add that. There is for a book-box.</p> +<p>I hope you will like the end; I think it is rather strong +meat. I have got into such a deliberate, dilatory, +expansive <a name="page239"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +239</span>turn, that the effort to compress this last yarn was +unwelcome; but the longest yarn has to come to an end +sometime. Please look it over for carelessnesses, and tell +me if it had any effect upon your jaded editorial mind. +I’ll see if ever I have time to add more.</p> +<p>I add to my book-box list Adams’ <i>Historical +Essays</i>; the Plays of A. W. Pinero—all that have +appeared, and send me the rest in course as they do appear; +<i>Noughts and Crosses</i> by Q.; Robertson’s <i>Scotland +under her Early Kings</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Sunday</i>.</p> +<p>The deed is done, didst thou not hear a noise? +‘The end’ has been written to this endless yarn, and +I am once more a free man. What will he do with it?</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. Craibe Angus</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>November</i> 1891.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MR. +ANGUS</span>,—Herewith the invaluable sheets. They +came months after your letter, and I trembled; but here they are, +and I have scrawled my vile name on them, and ‘thocht +shame’ as I did it. I am expecting the sheets of your +catalogue, so that I may attack the preface. Please give me +all the time you can. The sooner the better; you might even +send me early proofs as they are sent out, to give me more +incubation. I used to write as slow as judgment; now I +write rather fast; but I am still ‘a slow study,’ and +sit a long while silent on my eggs. Unconscious thought, +there is the only method: macerate your subject, let it boil +slow, then take the lid off and look in—and there your +stuff is, good or bad. But the journalist’s method is +the way to manufacture lies; it is will-worship—if you know +the luminous quaker phrase; and the will is only to be brought in +the field for study, and again for revision. The essential +part of work is not an act, it is a state.</p> +<p>I do not know why I write you this trash.</p> +<p><a name="page240"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 240</span>Many +thanks for your handsome dedication. I have not yet had +time to do more than glance at Mrs. Begg; it looks +interesting.—Yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Annie H. Ide</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i> +[<i>November</i> 1891].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOUISA</span>,—Your +picture of the church, the photograph of yourself and your +sister, and your very witty and pleasing letter, came all in a +bundle, and made me feel I had my money’s worth for that +birthday. I am now, I must be, one of your nearest +relatives; exactly what we are to each other, I do not know, I +doubt if the case has ever happened before—your papa ought +to know, and I don’t believe he does; but I think I ought +to call you in the meanwhile, and until we get the advice of +counsel learned in the law, my name-daughter. Well, I was +extremely pleased to see by the church that my name-daughter +could draw; by the letter, that she was no fool; and by the +photograph, that she was a pretty girl, which hurts +nothing. See how virtues are rewarded! My first idea +of adopting you was entirely charitable; and here I find that I +am quite proud of it, and of you, and that I chose just the kind +of name-daughter I wanted. For I can draw too, or rather I +mean to say I could before I forgot how; and I am very far from +being a fool myself, however much I may look it; and I am as +beautiful as the day, or at least I once hoped that perhaps I +might be going to be. And so I might. So that you see +we are well met, and peers on these important points. I am +<i>very</i> glad also that you are older than your sister. +So should I have been, if I had had one. So that the number +of points and virtues which you have inherited from your +name-father is already quite surprising.</p> +<p>I wish you would tell your father—not that I like to <a +name="page241"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 241</span>encourage +my rival—that we have had a wonderful time here of late, +and that they are having a cold day on Mulinuu, and the consuls +are writing reports, and I am writing to the <i>Times</i>, and if +we don’t get rid of our friends this time I shall begin to +despair of everything but my name-daughter.</p> +<p>You are quite wrong as to the effect of the birthday on your +age. From the moment the deed was registered (as it was in +the public press with every solemnity), the 13th of November +became your own <i>and only</i> birthday, and you ceased to have +been born on Christmas Day. Ask your father: I am sure he +will tell you this is sound law. You are thus become a +month and twelve days younger than you were, but will go on +growing older for the future in the regular and human manner from +one 13th November to the next. The effect on me is more +doubtful; I may, as you suggest, live for ever; I might, on the +other hand, come to pieces like the one-horse shay at a +moment’s notice; doubtless the step was risky, but I do not +the least regret that which enables me to sign myself your +revered and delighted name-father,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Fred Orr</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Upolu</i>, +<i>Samoa</i>, <i>November</i> 28<i>th</i>, 1891.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR SIR</span>,—Your obliging +communication is to hand. I am glad to find that you have +read some of my books, and to see that you spell my name +right. This is a point (for some reason) of great +difficulty; and I believe that a gentleman who can spell +Stevenson with a v at sixteen, should have a show for the +Presidency before fifty. By that time</p> +<blockquote><p>I, nearer to the wayside inn,</p> +</blockquote> +<p><a name="page242"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +242</span>predict that you will have outgrown your taste for +autographs, but perhaps your son may have inherited the +collection, and on the morning of the great day will recall my +prophecy to your mind. And in the papers of 1921 (say) this +letter may arouse a smile.</p> +<p>Whatever you do, read something else besides novels and +newspapers; the first are good enough when they are good; the +second, at their best, are worth nothing. Read great books +of literature and history; try to understand the Roman Empire and +the Middle Ages; be sure you do not understand when you dislike +them; condemnation is non-comprehension. And if you know +something of these two periods, you will know a little more about +to-day, and may be a good President.</p> +<p>I send you my best wishes, and am yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>,<br /> +<i>Author of a vast quantity of little books</i>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Vailima</i>, <i>December</i> +1891.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BURLINGAME</span>,—The +end of <i>The Wrecker</i> having but just come in, you will, I +dare say, be appalled to receive three (possibly four) chapters +of a new book of the least attractive sort: a history of nowhere +in a corner, for no time to mention, running to a volume! +Well, it may very likely be an illusion; it is very likely no one +could possibly wish to read it, but I wish to publish it. +If you don’t cotton to the idea, kindly set it up at my +expense, and let me know your terms for publishing. The +great affair to me is to have per return (if it might be) four or +five—better say half a dozen—sets of the roughest +proofs that can be drawn. There are a good many men here +whom I want to read the blessed thing, and not one would have <a +name="page243"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 243</span>the energy +to read <span class="GutSmall">MS</span>. At the same time, +if you care to glance at it, and have the time, I should be very +glad of your opinion as to whether I have made any step at all +towards possibly inducing folk at home to read matter so +extraneous and outlandish. I become heavy and owlish; years +sit upon me; it begins to seem to me to be a man’s business +to leave off his damnable faces and say his say. Else I +could have made it pungent and light and lively. In +considering, kindly forget that I am R. L. S.; think of the four +chapters as a book you are reading, by an inhabitant of our +‘lovely but fatil’ islands; and see if it could +possibly amuse the hebetated public. I have to publish +anyway, you understand; I have a purpose beyond; I am concerned +for some of the parties to this quarrel. What I want to +hear is from curiosity; what I want you to judge of is what we +are to do with the book in a business sense. To me it is +not business at all; I had meant originally to lay all the +profits to the credit of Samoa; when it comes to the pinch of +writing, I judge this unfair—I give too much—and I +mean to keep (if there be any profit at all) one-half for the +artisan; the rest I shall hold over to give to the Samoans <i>for +that which I choose and against work done</i>. I think I +have never heard of greater insolence than to attempt such a +subject; yet the tale is so strange and mixed, and the people so +oddly charactered—above all, the whites—and the high +note of the hurricane and the warships is so well prepared to +take popular interest, and the latter part is so directly in the +day’s movement, that I am not without hope but some may +read it; and if they don’t, a murrain on them! Here +is, for the first time, a tale of Greeks—Homeric +Greeks—mingled with moderns, and all true; Odysseus +alongside of Rajah Brooke, <i>proportion gardée</i>; and +all true. Here is for the first time since the Greeks (that +I remember) the history of a handful of men, where all know each +other in the eyes, and live close in a few acres, narrated at +length, and with the seriousness of history. Talk of the +modern novel; here <a name="page244"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +244</span>is a modern history. And if I had the misfortune +to found a school, the legitimate historian might lie down and +die, for he could never overtake his material. Here is a +little tale that has not ‘caret’-ed its +‘vates’; ‘sacer’ is another point.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>December</i> 7<i>th</i>, +1891.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENRY +JAMES</span>,—Thanks for yours; your former letter was +lost; so it appears was my long and masterly treatise on the +<i>Tragic Muse</i>. I remember sending it very well, and +there went by the same mail a long and masterly tractate to Gosse +about his daddy’s life, for which I have been long +expecting an acknowledgment, and which is plainly gone to the +bottom with the other. If you see Gosse, please mention +it. These gems of criticism are now lost literature, like +the tomes of Alexandria. I could not do ’em +again. And I must ask you to be content with a dull head, a +weary hand, and short commons, for to-day, as I am physically +tired with hard work of every kind, the labours of the planter +and the author both piled upon me mountain deep. I am +delighted beyond expression by Bourget’s book: he has +phrases which affect me almost like Montaigne; I had read ere +this a masterly essay of his on Pascal; this book does it; I +write for all his essays by this mail, and shall try to meet him +when I come to Europe. The proposal is to pass a summer in +France, I think in Royat, where the faithful could come and visit +me; they are now not many. I expect Henry James to come and +break a crust or two with us. I believe it will be only my +wife and myself; and she will go over to England, but not I, or +possibly incog. to Southampton, and then to Boscombe to see poor +<a name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 245</span>Lady +Shelley. I am writing—trying to write in a Babel fit +for the bottomless pit; my wife, her daughter, her grandson and +my mother, all shrieking at each other round the house—not +in war, thank God! but the din is ultra martial, and the note of +Lloyd joins in occasionally, and the cause of this to-do is +simply cacao, whereof chocolate comes. You may drink of our +chocolate perhaps in five or six years from now, and not know +it. It makes a fine bustle, and gives us some hard work, +out of which I have slunk for to-day.</p> +<p>I have a story coming out: God knows when or how; it answers +to the name of the <i>Beach of Falesà</i>, and I think +well of it. I was delighted with the <i>Tragic Muse</i>; I +thought the Muse herself one of your best works; I was delighted +also to hear of the success of your piece, as you know I am a dam +failure, <a name="citation245"></a><a href="#footnote245" +class="citation">[245]</a> and might have dined with the dinner +club that Daudet and these parties frequented.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Next day</i>.</p> +<p>I have just been breakfasting at Baiae and Brindisi, and the +charm of Bourget hag-rides me. I wonder if this exquisite +fellow, all made of fiddle-strings and scent and intelligence, +could bear any of my bald prose. If you think he could, ask +Colvin to send him a copy of these last essays of mine when they +appear; and tell Bourget they go to him from a South Sea Island +as literal homage. I have read no new book for years that +gave me the same literary thrill as his <i>Sensations +d’Italie</i>. If (as I imagine) my cut-and-dry +literature would be death to him, and worse than +death—journalism—be silent on the point. For I +have a great curiosity to know him, and if he doesn’t know +my work, I shall have the better chance of making his +acquaintance. I read <i>The Pupil</i> the other day with +great joy; your little boy is admirable; why is there no little +boy like that unless he hails from the Great Republic?</p> +<p>Here I broke off, and wrote Bourget a dedication; no use +resisting; it’s a love affair. O, he’s +exquisite, I bless <a name="page246"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +246</span>you for the gift of him. I have really enjoyed +this book as I—almost as I—used to enjoy books when I +was going twenty—twenty-three; and these are the years for +reading!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Vailima</i>] <i>Jan.</i> +2<i>nd</i>, ’92.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR +BURLINGAME</span>,—Overjoyed you were pleased with +<i>Wrecker</i>, and shall consider your protests. There is +perhaps more art than you think for in the peccant chapter, where +I have succeeded in packing into one a dedication, an +explanation, and a termination. Surely you had not +recognised the phrase about boodle? It was a quotation from +Jim Pinkerton, and seemed to me agreeably skittish. +However, all shall be prayerfully considered.</p> +<p>To come to a more painful subject. Herewith go three +more chapters of the wretched <i>History</i>; as you see, I +approach the climax. I expect the book to be some 70,000 +words, of which you have now 45. Can I finish it for next +mail? I am going to try! ’Tis a long piece of +journalism, and full of difficulties here and there, of this kind +and that, and will make me a power of friends to be sure. +There is one Becker who will probably put up a window to me in +the church where he was baptized; and I expect a testimonial from +Captain Hand.</p> +<p>Sorry to let the mail go without the Scott; this has been a +bad month with me, and I have been below myself. I shall +find a way to have it come by next, or know the reason why. +The mail after, anyway.</p> +<p>A bit of a sketch map appears to me necessary for my +<i>History</i>; perhaps two. If I do not have any, +’tis impossible any one should follow; and I, even when not +at all interested, demand that I shall be able to follow; even a +tourist book without a map is a cross to me; and there must be +others of my way of thinking. I inclose the very artless +one that I think needful. Vailima, in <a +name="page247"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 247</span>case you +are curious, is about as far again behind Tanugamanono as that is +from the sea.</p> +<p>M‘Clure is publishing a short story of mine, some 50,000 +words, I think, <i>The Beach of Falesà</i>; when +he’s done with it, I want you and Cassell to bring it out +in a little volume; I shall send you a dedication for it; I +believe it good; indeed, to be honest, very good. Good gear +that pleases the merchant.</p> +<p>The other map that I half threaten is a chart for the +hurricane. Get me Kimberley’s report of the +hurricane: not to be found here. It is of most importance; +I <i>must</i> have it with my proofs of that part, if I cannot +have it earlier, which now seems impossible.—Yours in hot +haste,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to J. M. Barrie</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>February</i> 1892.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. BARRIE</span>,—This is +at least the third letter I have written you, but my +correspondence has a bad habit of not getting so far as the +post. That which I possess of manhood turns pale before the +business of the address and envelope. But I hope to be more +fortunate with this: for, besides the usual and often recurrent +desire to thank you for your work-you are one of four that have +come to the front since I was watching and had a corner of my own +to watch, and there is no reason, unless it be in these +mysterious tides that ebb and flow, and make and mar and murder +the works of poor scribblers, why you should not do work of the +best order. The tides have borne away my sentence, of which +I was weary at any rate, and between authors I may allow myself +so much freedom as to leave it pending. We are both Scots +besides, and I suspect both rather Scotty Scots; my own +Scotchness <a name="page248"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +248</span>tends to intermittency, but is at times +erisypelitous—if that be rightly spelt. Lastly, I +have gathered we had both made our stages in the metropolis of +the winds: our Virgil’s ‘grey metropolis,’ and +I count that a lasting bond. No place so brands a man.</p> +<p>Finally, I feel it a sort of duty to you to report +progress. This may be an error, but I believed I detected +your hand in an article—it may be an illusion, it may have +been by one of those industrious insects who catch up and +reproduce the handling of each emergent man—but I’ll +still hope it was yours—and hope it may please you to hear +that the continuation of <i>Kidnapped</i> is under way. I +have not yet got to Alan, so I do not know if he is still alive, +but David seems to have a kick or two in his shanks. I was +pleased to see how the Anglo-Saxon theory fell into the trap: I +gave my Lowlander a Gaelic name, and even commented on the fact +in the text; yet almost all critics recognised in Alan and David +a Saxon and a Celt. I know not about England; in Scotland +at least, where Gaelic was spoken in Fife little over the century +ago, and in Galloway not much earlier, I deny that there exists +such a thing as a pure Saxon, and I think it more than +questionable if there be such a thing as a pure Celt.</p> +<p>But what have you to do with this? and what have I? Let +us continue to inscribe our little bits of tales, and let the +heathen rage! Yours, with sincere interest in your +career,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to William Morris</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>Feb.</i> 1892.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MASTER</span>,—A plea from a +place so distant should have some weight, and from a heart so +grateful should have <a name="page249"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 249</span>some address. I have been long +in your debt, Master, and I did not think it could be so much +increased as you have now increased it. I was long in your +debt and deep in your debt for many poems that I shall never +forget, and for <i>Sigurd</i> before all, and now you have +plunged me beyond payment by the Saga Library. And so now, +true to human nature, being plunged beyond payment, I come and +bark at your heels.</p> +<p>For surely, Master, that tongue that we write, and that you +have illustrated so nobly, is yet alive. She has her rights +and laws, and is our mother, our queen, and our instrument. +Now in that living tongue <i>where</i> has one sense, +<i>whereas</i> another. In the <i>Heathslayings Story</i>, +p. 241, line 13, it bears one of its ordinary senses. +Elsewhere and usually through the two volumes, which is all that +has yet reached me of this entrancing publication, <i>whereas</i> +is made to figure for <i>where</i>.</p> +<p>For the love of God, my dear and honoured Morris, use +<i>where</i>, and let us know <i>whereas</i> we are, wherefore +our gratitude shall grow, whereby you shall be the more honoured +wherever men love clear language, whereas now, although we +honour, we are troubled.</p> +<p>Whereunder, please find inscribed to this very impudent but +yet very anxious document, the name of one of the most distant +but not the youngest or the coldest of those who honour you.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Charles Fairchild</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Vailima</i>, <i>March</i> +1892.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MRS. FAIRCHILD</span>,—I +am guilty in your sight, but my affairs besiege +me. The chief-justiceship of a family of +nineteen persons is in itself no sinecure, and <a +name="page250"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 250</span>sometimes +occupies me for days: two weeks ago for four days almost +entirely, and for two days entirely. Besides which, I have +in the last few months written all but one chapter of a +<i>History of Samoa</i> for the last eight or nine years; and +while I was unavoidably delayed in the writing of this, awaiting +material, put in one-half of <i>David Balfour</i>, the sequel to +<i>Kidnapped</i>. Add the ordinary impediments of life, and +admire my busyness. I am now an old, but healthy skeleton, +and degenerate much towards the machine. By six at work: +stopped at half-past ten to give a history lesson to a +step-grandson; eleven, lunch; after lunch we have a musical +performance till two; then to work again; bath, 4.40, dinner, +five; cards in the evening till eight; and then to bed—only +I have no bed, only a chest with a mat and blankets—and +read myself to sleep. This is the routine, but often sadly +interrupted. Then you may see me sitting on the floor of my +verandah haranguing and being harangued by squatting chiefs on a +question of a road; or more privately holding an inquiry into +some dispute among our familiars, myself on my bed, the boys on +the floor—for when it comes to the judicial I play +dignity—or else going down to Apia on some more or less +unsatisfactory errand. Altogether it is a life that suits +me, but it absorbs me like an ocean. That is what I have +always envied and admired in Scott; with all that immensity of +work and study, his mind kept flexible, glancing to all points of +natural interest. But the lean hot spirits, such as mine, +become hypnotised with their bit occupations—if I may use +Scotch to you—it is so far more scornful than any English +idiom. Well, I can’t help being a skeleton, and you +are to take this devious passage for an apology.</p> +<p>I thought <i>Aladdin</i> capital fun; but why, in fortune, did +he pretend it was moral at the end? The so-called +nineteenth century, <i>où va-t-il se nicher</i>? +’Tis a trifle, but Pyle would do well to knock the passage +out, and <a name="page251"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +251</span>leave his boguey tale a boguey tale, and a good one at +that.</p> +<p>The arrival of your box was altogether a great success to the +castaways. You have no idea where we live. Do you +know, in all these islands there are not five hundred whites, and +no postal delivery, and only one village—it is no +more—and would be a mean enough village in Europe? We +were asked the other day if Vailima were the name of our post +town, and we laughed. Do you know, though we are but three +miles from the village metropolis, we have no road to it, and our +goods are brought on the pack-saddle? And do you +know—or I should rather say, can you believe—or (in +the famous old Tichborne trial phrase) would you be surprised to +learn, that all you have read of Vailima—or Subpriorsford, +as I call it—is entirely false, and we have no ice-machine, +and no electric light, and no water supply but the cistern of the +heavens, and but one public room, and scarce a bedroom +apiece? But, of course, it is well known that I have made +enormous sums by my evanescent literature, and you will smile at +my false humility. The point, however, is much on our minds +just now. We are expecting an invasion of Kiplings; very +glad we shall be to see them; but two of the party are ladies, +and I tell you we had to hold a council of war to stow +them. You European ladies are so particular; with all of +mine, sleeping has long become a public function, as with natives +and those who go down much into the sea in ships.</p> +<p>Dear Mrs. Fairchild, I must go to my work. I have but +two words to say in conclusion.</p> +<p>First, civilisation is rot.</p> +<p>Second, console a savage with more of the milk of that over +civilised being, your adorable schoolboy.</p> +<p>As I wrote these remarkable words, I was called down to eight +o’clock prayers, and have just worked through a chapter of +Joshua and five verses, with five treble choruses of a Samoan +hymn; but the music was good, our boys <a +name="page252"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 252</span>and +precentress (’tis always a woman that leads) did better +than I ever heard them, and to my great pleasure I understood it +all except one verse. This gave me the more time to try and +identify what the parts were doing, and further convict my dull +ear. Beyond the fact that the soprano rose to the tonic +above, on one occasion I could recognise nothing. This is +sickening, but I mean to teach my ear better before I am done +with it or this vile carcase.</p> +<p>I think it will amuse you (for a last word) to hear that our +precentress—she is the washerwoman—is our +shame. She is a good, healthy, comely, strapping young +wench, full of energy and seriousness, a splendid workwoman, +delighting to train our chorus, delighting in the poetry of the +hymns, which she reads aloud (on the least provocation) with a +great sentiment of rhythm. Well, then, what is +curious? Ah, we did not know! but it was told us in a +whisper from the cook-house—she is not of good +family. Don’t let it get out, please; everybody knows +it, of course, here; there is no reason why Europe and the States +should have the advantage of me also. And the rest of my +housefolk are all chief-people, I assure you. And my late +overseer (far the best of his race) is a really serious chief +with a good ‘name.’ Tina is the name; it is not +in the Almanach de Gotha, it must have got dropped at +press. The odd thing is, we rather share the +prejudice. I have almost always—though not quite +always—found the higher the chief the better the man +through all the islands; or, at least, that the best man came +always from a highish rank. I hope Helen will continue to +prove a bright exception.</p> +<p>With love to Fairchild and the Huge Schoolboy, I am, my dear +Mrs. Fairchild, yours very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page253"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +253</span><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Vailima</i>, <i>March</i> +1892.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR +BURLINGAME</span>,—Herewith Chapters <span +class="GutSmall">IX</span>. and <span class="GutSmall">X</span>., +and I am left face to face with the horrors and dilemmas of the +present regimen: pray for those that go down to the sea in +ships. I have promised Henley shall have a chance to +publish the hurricane chapter if he like, so please let the slips +be sent <i>quam primum</i> to C. Baxter, W.S., 11 S. Charlotte +Street, Edinburgh. I got on mighty quick with that +chapter—about five days of the toughest kind of work. +God forbid I should ever have such another pirn to wind! +When I invent a language, there shall be a direct and an indirect +pronoun differently declined—then writing would be some +fun.</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p>DIRECT</p> +</td> +<td><p>INDIRECT</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent">He</p> +</td> +<td><p class="gutindent">Tu</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent">Him</p> +</td> +<td><p class="gutindent">Tum</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p class="gutindent">His</p> +</td> +<td><p class="gutindent">Tus</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p>Ex.: <i>He</i> seized <i>tum</i> by <i>tus</i> throat; but +<i>tu</i> at the same moment caught <i>him</i> by <i>his</i> +hair. A fellow could write hurricanes with an inflection +like that! Yet there would he difficulties too.</p> +<p>Do what you please about <i>The Beach</i>; and I give you +<i>carte blanche</i> to write in the matter to Baxter—or +telegraph if the time press—to delay the English +contingent. Herewith the two last slips of <i>The +Wrecker</i>. I cannot go beyond. By the way, pray +compliment the printers on the proofs of the Samoa racket, but +hint to them that it is most unbusiness-like and unscholarly to +clip the edges of the galleys; these proofs should really have +been sent me on large paper; and I and my friends here are all +put to a great deal of trouble and confusion by the <a +name="page254"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +254</span>mistake. For, as you must conceive, in a matter +so contested and complicated, the number of corrections and the +length of explanations is considerable.</p> +<p>Please add to my former orders—</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Le Chevalier Des Touches</i></p> +</td> +<td><p>by Barbey d’Aurévilly.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Les Diaboliques</i></p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><i>Correspondance de Henri Beyle</i></p> +</td> +<td><p>(Stendahl).</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p>Yours sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to T. W. Dover</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima Plantation</i>, +<i>Upolu</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, <i>June</i> 20<i>th</i>, 1892.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>,—In reply to your very +interesting letter, I cannot fairly say that I have ever been +poor, or known what it was to want a meal. I have been +reduced, however, to a very small sum of money, with no apparent +prospect of increasing it; and at that time I reduced myself to +practically one meal a day, with the most disgusting consequences +to my health. At this time I lodged in the house of a +working man, and associated much with others. At the same +time, from my youth up, I have always been a good deal and rather +intimately thrown among the working-classes, partly as a civil +engineer in out-of-the-way places, partly from a strong and, I +hope, not ill-favoured sentiment of curiosity. But the +place where, perhaps, I was most struck with the fact upon which +you comment was the house of a friend, who was exceedingly poor, +in fact, I may say destitute, and who lived in the attic of a +very tall house entirely inhabited by persons in varying stages +of poverty. As he was also in ill-health, I made a habit of +passing my afternoon with him, and when there it was my part to +answer the door. The steady procession of people begging, +and the expectant <a name="page255"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +255</span>and confident manner in which they presented +themselves, struck me more and more daily; and I could not but +remember with surprise that though my father lived but a few +streets away in a fine house, beggars scarce came to the door +once a fortnight or a month. From that time forward I made +it my business to inquire, and in the stories which I am very +fond of hearing from all sorts and conditions of men, learned +that in the time of their distress it was always from the poor +they sought assistance, and almost always from the poor they got +it.</p> +<p>Trusting I have now satisfactorily answered your question, +which I thank you for asking, I remain, with sincere +compliments,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Summer</i> +1892.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BURLINGAME</span>,—First +of all, <i>you have all the corrections on</i> ‘<i>The +Wrecker</i>.’ I found I had made what I meant and +forgotten it, and was so careless as not to tell you.</p> +<p>Second, of course, and by all means, charge corrections on the +Samoa book to me; but there are not near so many as I +feared. The Lord hath dealt bountifully with me, and I +believe all my advisers were amazed to see how nearly correct I +had got the truck, at least I was. With this you will +receive the whole revise and a typewritten copy of the last +chapter. And the thing now is Speed, to catch a possible +revision of the treaty. I believe Cassells are to bring it +out, but Baxter knows, and the thing has to be crammed through +<i>prestissimo</i>, <i>à la chasseur</i>.</p> +<p>You mention the belated Barbeys; what about the equally +belated Pineros? And I hope you will keep your bookshop +alive to supplying me continuously with the <i>Saga +Library</i>. I cannot get enough of <i>Sagas</i>; I wish +there were nine thousand; talk about realism!</p> +<p><a name="page256"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 256</span>All +seems to flourish with you; I also prosper; none the less for +being quit of that abhorred task, Samoa. I could give a +supper party here were there any one to sup. Never was such +a disagreeable task, but the thing had to be told. . . .</p> +<p>There, I trust I am done with this cursed chapter of my +career, bar the rotten eggs and broken bottles that may follow, +of course. Pray remember, speed is now all that can be +asked, hoped, or wished. I give up all hope of proofs, +revises, proof of the map, or sic like; and you on your side will +try to get it out as reasonably seemly as may be.</p> +<p>Whole Samoa book herewith. Glory be to God.—Yours +very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima Plantation</i>, +<i>Upolu</i>, <i>Samoan Islands</i>, 18<i>th</i> <i>July</i> +1892.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—. . . I +have been now for some time contending with powers and +principalities, and I have never once seen one of my own letters +to the <i>Times</i>. So when you see something in the +papers that you think might interest the exiles of Upolu, do not +think twice, out with your saxpence, and send it flying to +Vailima. Of what you say of the past, eh, man, it was a +queer time, and awful miserable, but there’s no sense in +denying it was awful fun. Do you mind the youth in Highland +garb and the tableful of coppers? Do you mind the <span +class="GutSmall">SIGNAL</span> of Waterloo Place?—Hey, how +the blood stands to the heart at such a memory!—Hae ye the +notes o’t? Gie’s them.—Gude’s sake, +man, gie’s the notes o’t; I mind ye made a tune +o’t an’ played it on your pinanny; gie’s the +notes. Dear Lord, that past.</p> +<p>Glad to hear Henley’s prospects are fair: his new volume +is the work of a real poet. He is one of those who can make +a noise of his own with words, and in whom experience strikes an +individual note. There is perhaps no <a +name="page257"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 257</span>more +genuine poet living, bar the Big Guns. In case I cannot +overtake an acknowledgment to himself by this mail, please let +him hear of my pleasure and admiration. How +poorly—compares! He is all smart journalism and +cleverness: it is all bright and shallow and limpid, like a +business paper—a good one, <i>s’entend</i>; but there +is no blot of heart’s blood and the Old Night: there are no +harmonics, there is scarce harmony to his music; and in +Henley—all of these; a touch, a sense within sense, a sound +outside the sound, the shadow of the inscrutable, eloquent beyond +all definition. The First London Voluntary knocked me +wholly.—Ever yours affectionately, my dear Charles,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>Kind memories to your father and all friends.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. E. Henley</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima Plantation</i>, +<i>Upolu</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, <i>August</i> 1<i>st</i>, 1892.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENLEY</span>,—It is +impossible to let your new volume pass in silence. I have +not received the same thrill of poetry since G. M.’s <i>Joy +of Earth</i> volume and <i>Love in a Valley</i>; and I do not +know that even that was so intimate and deep. Again and +again, I take the book down, and read, and my blood is fired as +it used to be in youth. <i>Andante con moto</i> in the +<i>Voluntaries</i>, and the thing about the trees at night (No. +<span class="GutSmall">XXIV</span>. I think) are up to date my +favourites. I did not guess you were so great a magician; +these are new tunes, this is an undertone of the true Apollo; +these are not verse, they are poetry—inventions, creations, +in language. I thank you for the joy you have given me, and +remain your old friend and present huge admirer,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>The hand is really the hand of Esau, but under a course of +threatened scrivener’s cramp.</p> +<p>For the next edition of the Book of Verses, pray accept <a +name="page258"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 258</span>an +emendation. Last three lines of Echoes No. <span +class="GutSmall">XLIV</span>. read—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘But life in act? How should the +grave<br /> +Be victor over these,<br /> +Mother, a mother of men?’</p> +<p>The two vocatives scatter the effect of this inimitable +close. If you insist on the longer line, equip +‘grave’ with an epithet.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Upolu</i>, +<i>August</i> 1<i>st</i>, ’92.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR +BURLINGAME</span>,—Herewith <i>My Grandfather</i>. I +have had rather a bad time suppressing the old gentleman, who was +really in a very garrulous stage; as for getting him <i>in +order</i>, I could do but little towards that; however, there are +one or two points of interest which may justify us in +printing. The swinging of his stick and not knowing the +sailor of Coruiskin, in particular, and the account of how he +wrote the lives in the Bell Book particularly please me. I hope +my own little introduction is not egoistic; or rather I do not +care if it is. It was that old gentleman’s blood that +brought me to Samoa.</p> +<p>By the by, vols. vii., viii., and ix. of Adams’s +<i>History</i> have never come to hand; no more have the +dictionaries.</p> +<p>Please send me <i>Stonehenge on Horse</i>, <i>Stories and +Interludes</i> by Barry Pain, and <i>Edinburgh Sketches and +Memoirs</i> by David Masson. <i>The Wrecker</i> has turned +up. So far as I have seen, it is very satisfactory, but on +pp. 548, 549, there has been a devil of a miscarriage. The +two Latin quotations instead of following each other being +separated (doubtless for printing considerations) by a line of +prose. My compliments to the printers; there is doubtless +such a thing as good printing, but there is such a thing as good +sense.</p> +<p>The sequel to <i>Kidnapped</i>, <i>David Balfour</i> by name, +is about three-quarters done and gone to press for serial <a +name="page259"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +259</span>publication. By what I can find out it ought to +be through hand with that and ready for volume form early next +spring.—Yours very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Andrew Lang</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Vailima</i>, <i>August</i> +1892.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LANG</span>,—I knew you +would prove a trusty purveyor. The books you have sent are +admirable. I got the name of my hero out of +Brown—Blair of Balmyle—Francie Blair. But +whether to call the story <i>Blair of Balmyle</i>, or whether to +call it <i>The Young Chevalier</i>, I have not yet decided. +The admirable Cameronian tract—perhaps you will think this +a cheat—is to be boned into <i>David Balfour</i>, where it +will fit better, and really furnishes me with a desired foothold +over a boggy place.</p> +<p><i>Later</i>; no, it won’t go in, and I fear I must give +up ‘the idolatrous occupant upon the throne,’ a +phrase that overjoyed me beyond expression. I am in a deuce +of a flutter with politics, which I hate, and in which I +certainly do not shine; but a fellow cannot stand aside and look +on at such an exhibition as our government. ’Taint +decent; no gent can hold a candle to it. But it’s a +grind to be interrupted by midnight messengers and pass your days +writing proclamations (which are never proclaimed) and petitions +(which ain’t petited) and letters to the <i>Times</i>, +which it makes my jaws yawn to re-read, and all your time have +your heart with David Balfour: he has just left Glasgow this +morning for Edinburgh, James More has escaped from the castle; it +is far more real to me than the Behring Sea or the Baring +brothers either—he got the news of James More’s +escape from the Lord Advocate, and started off straight to +comfort Catriona. You don’t know her; she’s +James More’s daughter, and a respectable <a +name="page260"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 260</span>young +wumman; the Miss Grants think so—the Lord Advocate’s +daughters—so there can’t be anything really +wrong. Pretty soon we all go to Holland, and be hanged; +thence to Dunkirk, and be damned; and the tale concludes in +Paris, and be Poll-parrotted. This is the last authentic +news. You are not a real hard-working novelist; not a +practical novelist; so you don’t know the temptation to let +your characters maunder. Dumas did it, and lived. But +it is not war; it ain’t sportsmanlike, and I have to be +stopping their chatter all the time. Brown’s appendix +is great reading.</p> +<p class="poetry">My only grief is that I can’t<br /> +Use the idolatrous occupant.</p> +<p>Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>Blessing and praising you for a useful (though idolatrous) +occupant of Kensington.</p> +<h2><span class="smcap">to the Countess of Jersey</span></h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page261"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 261</span><i>August</i> 14, 1745.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">TO MISS AMELIA BALFOUR—MY DEAR +COUSIN</span>,—We are going an expedition to leeward on +Tuesday morning. If a lady were perhaps to be encountered +on horseback—say, towards the Gasi-gasi river—about +six <span class="GutSmall">A.M.</span>, I think we should have an +episode somewhat after the style of the ’45. What a +misfortune, my dear cousin, that you should have arrived while +your cousin Graham was occupying my only guest-chamber—for +Osterley Park is not so large in Samoa as it was at +home—but happily our friend Haggard has found a corner for +you!</p> +<p>The King over the Water—the Gasi-gasi water—will +be pleased to see the clan of Balfour mustering so thick around +his standard.</p> +<p>I have (one serious word) been so lucky as to get a really +secret interpreter, so all is for the best in our little +adventure into the <i>Waverley Novels</i>.—I am your +affectionate cousin,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>Observe the stealth with which I have blotted my signature, +but we must be political <i>à outrance</i>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to the Countess of Jersey</span></h3> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR COUSIN</span>,—I send for +your information a copy of my last letter to the gentleman in +question. ’Tis thought more wise, in consideration of +the difficulty and peril of the enterprise, that we should leave +the town in the afternoon, and by several detachments. If +you would start for a ride with the Master of Haggard and Captain +Lockhart of Lee, say at three o’clock of the afternoon, you +would make some rencounters by the wayside which might be +agreeable to your political opinions. All present will be +staunch.</p> +<p>The Master of Haggard might extend his ride a little, and +return through the marsh and by the nuns’ house (I trust +that has the proper flavour), so as a little to <a +name="page262"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 262</span>diminish +the effect of separation.—I remain, your affectionate +cousin to command,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">O <span +class="smcap">Tusitala</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—It is to be thought this present year of +grace will be historical.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Charles Fairchild</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Vailima</i>, <i>August</i> +1892.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MRS. +FAIRCHILD</span>,—Thank you a thousand times for your +letter. You are the Angel of (the sort of) Information +(that I care about); I appoint you successor to the newspaper +press; and I beg of you, whenever you wish to gird at the age, or +think the bugs out of proportion to the roses, or despair, or +enjoy any cosmic or epochal emotion, to sit down again and write +to the Hermit of Samoa. What do I think of it all? +Well, I love the romantic solemnity of youth; and even in this +form, although not without laughter, I have to love it +still. They are such ducks! But what are they made +of? We were just as solemn as that about atheism and the +stars and humanity; but we were all for belief anyway—we +held atheism and sociology (of which none of us, nor indeed +anybody, knew anything) for a gospel and an iron rule of life; +and it was lucky enough, or there would have been more windows +broken. What is apt to puzzle one at first sight in the New +Youth is that, with such rickety and risky problems always at +heart, they should not plunge down a Niagara of +Dissolution. But let us remember the high practical +timidity of youth. I was a particularly brave +boy—this I think of myself, looking back—and plunged +into adventures and experiments, and ran risks that it still +surprises me to recall. But, dear me, what a fear I was in +of that strange blind machinery in the midst of which I stood; +and with what a compressed heart and what empty lungs I would +touch a new crank and await developments! I do not mean to +say I do not <a name="page263"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +263</span>fear life still; I do; and that terror (for an +adventurer like myself) is still one of the chief joys of +living.</p> +<p>But it was different indeed while I was yet girt with the +priceless robes of inexperience; then the fear was exquisite and +infinite. And so, when you see all these little Ibsens, who +seem at once so dry and so excitable, and faint in swathes over a +play (I suppose—for a wager) that would seem to me merely +tedious, smile behind your hand, and remember the little dears +are all in a blue funk. It must be very funny, and to a +spectator like yourself I almost envy it. But never get +desperate; human nature is human nature; and the Roman Empire, +since the Romans founded it and made our European human nature +what it is, bids fair to go on and to be true to itself. +These little bodies will all grow up and become men and women, +and have heaps of fun; nay, and are having it now; and whatever +happens to the fashion of the age, it makes no +difference—there are always high and brave and amusing +lives to be lived; and a change of key, however exotic, does not +exclude melody. Even Chinamen, hard as we find it to +believe, enjoy being Chinese. And the Chinaman stands alone +to be unthinkable; natural enough, as the representative of the +only other great civilisation. Take my people here at my +doors; their life is a very good one; it is quite thinkable, +quite acceptable to us. And the little dears will be soon +skating on the other foot; sooner or later, in each generation, +the one-half of them at least begin to remember all the material +they had rejected when first they made and nailed up their little +theory of life; and these become reactionaries or conservatives, +and the ship of man begins to fill upon the other tack.</p> +<p>Here is a sermon, by your leave! It is your own fault, +you have amused and interested me so much by your breath of the +New Youth, which comes to me from so far away, where I live up +here in my mountain, and secret messengers bring me letters from +rebels, and the government sometimes seizes them, and generally +grumbles in <a name="page264"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +264</span>its beard that Stevenson should really be +deported. O, my life is the more lively, never fear!</p> +<p>It has recently been most amusingly varied by a visit from +Lady Jersey. I took her over mysteriously (under the +pseudonym of my cousin, Miss Amelia Balfour) to visit Mataafa, +our rebel; and we had great fun, and wrote a Ouida novel on our +life here, in which every author had to describe himself in the +Ouida glamour, and of which—for the Jerseys intend printing +it—I must let you have a copy. My wife’s +chapter, and my description of myself, should, I think, amuse +you. But there were finer touches still; as when Belle and +Lady Jersey came out to brush their teeth in front of the rebel +King’s palace, and the night guard squatted opposite on the +grass and watched the process; or when I and my interpreter, and +the King with his secretary, mysteriously disappeared to +conspire.—Ever yours sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Gordon Browne</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>Autumn</i> 1892.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To the Artist who did the +illustrations to</i> ‘<i>Uma</i>.’</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR SIR</span>,—I only know you +under the initials G. B., but you have done some exceedingly +spirited and satisfactory illustrations to my story <i>The Beach +of Falesà</i>, and I wish to write and thank you expressly +for the care and talent shown. Such numbers of people can +do good black and whites! So few can illustrate a story, or +apparently read it. You have shown that you can do both, +and your creation of Wiltshire is a real illumination of the +text. It was exactly so that Wiltshire dressed and looked, +and you have the line of his nose to a nicety. His nose is +an inspiration. Nor should I forget to thank you for Case, +particularly in his last appearance. It is a singular +fact—which seems to point still more directly to +inspiration in your case—that your missionary actually +resembles the flesh-and-blood person from whom Mr. Tarleton was +<a name="page265"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +265</span>drawn. The general effect of the islands is all +that could be wished; indeed I have but one criticism to make, +that in the background of Case taking the dollar from Mr. +Tarleton’s head—head—not hand, as the fools +have printed it—the natives have a little too much the look +of Africans.</p> +<p>But the great affair is that you have been to the pains to +illustrate my story instead of making conscientious black and +whites of people sitting talking. I doubt if you have left +unrepresented a single pictorial incident. I am writing by +this mail to the editor in the hopes that I may buy from him the +originals, and I am, dear sir, your very much obliged,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Morse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoan +Islands</i>, <i>October</i> 7<i>th</i>, 1892.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MADAM</span>,—I have a great +diffidence in answering your valued letter. It would be +difficult for me to express the feelings with which I read +it—and am now trying to re-read it as I dictate this.</p> +<p>You ask me to forgive what you say ‘must seem a +liberty,’ and I find that I cannot thank you sufficiently +or even find a word with which to qualify your letter. Dear +Madam, such a communication even the vainest man would think a +sufficient reward for a lifetime of labour. That I should +have been able to give so much help and pleasure to your sister +is the subject of my grateful wonder.</p> +<p>That she, being dead, and speaking with your pen, should be +able to repay the debt with such a liberal interest, is one of +those things that reconcile us with the world and make us take +hope again. I do not know what I have done to deserve so +beautiful and touching <a name="page266"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 266</span>a compliment; and I feel there is +but one thing fit for me to say here, that I will try with +renewed courage to go on in the same path, and to deserve, if not +to receive, a similar return from others.</p> +<p>You apologise for speaking so much about yourselves. +Dear Madam, I thought you did so too little. I should have +wished to have known more of those who were so sympathetic as to +find a consolation in my work, and so graceful and so tactful as +to acknowledge it in such a letter as was yours.</p> +<p>Will you offer to your mother the expression of a sympathy +which (coming from a stranger) must seem very airy, but which yet +is genuine; and accept for yourself my gratitude for the thought +which inspired you to write to me and the words which you found +to express it.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima Plantation</i>, <i>Samoan +Islands</i>, <i>Oct.</i> 10<i>th</i>, 1892.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BURLINGAME</span>,—It is +now, as you see, the 10th of October, and there has not reached +the Island of Upolu one single copy, or rag of a copy, of the +Samoa book. I lie; there has come one, and that in the +pocket of a missionary man who is at daggers drawn with me, who +lends it to all my enemies, conceals it from all my friends, and +is bringing a lawsuit against me on the strength of expressions +in the same which I have forgotten, and now cannot see. +This is pretty tragic, I think you will allow; and I was inclined +to fancy it was the fault of the Post Office. But I hear +from my sister-in-law Mrs. Sanchez that she is in the same case, +and has received no ‘Footnote.’ I have also to +consider that I had no letter from you last mail, although you +ought to have received by that time ‘My Grandfather and +Scott,’ and ‘Me and my Grandfather.’ +Taking one consideration with another, therefore, I prefer to +conceive that No. 743 <a name="page267"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 267</span>Broadway has fallen upon gentle and +continuous slumber, and is become an enchanted palace among +publishing houses. If it be not so, if the +‘Footnotes’ were really sent, I hope you will fall +upon the Post Office with all the vigour you possess. How +does <i>The Wrecker</i> go in the States? It seems to be +doing exceptionally well in England.—Yours sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to J. M. Barrie</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima Plantation</i>, <i>Samoan +Islands</i>, <i>November</i> 1<i>st</i>, 1892.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. BARRIE</span>,—I can +scarce thank you sufficiently for your extremely amusing +letter. No, <i>The Auld Licht Idyls</i> never reached +me—I wish it had, and I wonder extremely whether it would +not be good for me to have a pennyworth of the Auld Licht +pulpit. It is a singular thing that I should live here in +the South Seas under conditions so new and so striking, and yet +my imagination so continually inhabit that cold old huddle of +grey hills from which we come. I have just finished +<i>David Balfour</i>; I have another book on the stocks, <i>The +Young Chevalier</i>, which is to be part in France and part in +Scotland, and to deal with Prince Charlie about the year 1749; +and now what have I done but begun a third which is to be all +moorland together, and is to have for a centrepiece a figure that +I think you will appreciate—that of the immortal +Braxfield—Braxfield himself is my <i>grand premier</i>, or, +since you are so much involved in the British drama, let me say +my heavy lead. . . .</p> +<p>Your descriptions of your dealings with Lord Rintoul are +frightfully unconscientious. You should never write about +anybody until you persuade yourself at least for the moment that +you love him, above all anybody on whom your plot revolves. +It will always make a hole in the book; and, if he has anything +to do with the mechanism, prove a stick in your machinery. +But you <a name="page268"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +268</span>know all this better than I do, and it is one of your +most promising traits that you do not take your powers too +seriously. The <i>Little Minister</i> ought to have ended +badly; we all know it did; and we are infinitely grateful to you +for the grace and good feeling with which you lied about +it. If you had told the truth, I for one could never have +forgiven you. As you had conceived and written the earlier +parts, the truth about the end, though indisputably true to fact, +would have been a lie, or what is worse, a discord in art. +If you are going to make a book end badly, it must end badly from +the beginning. Now your book began to end well. You +let yourself fall in love with, and fondle, and smile at your +puppets. Once you had done that, your honour was +committed—at the cost of truth to life you were bound to +save them. It is the blot on <i>Richard Feverel</i>, for +instance, that it begins to end well; and then tricks you and +ends ill. But in that case there is worse behind, for the +ill-ending does not inherently issue from the plot—the +story <i>had</i>, in fact, <i>ended well</i> after the great last +interview between Richard and Lucy—and the blind, illogical +bullet which smashes all has no more to do between the boards +than a fly has to do with the room into whose open window it +comes buzzing. It <i>might</i> have so happened; it needed +not; and unless needs must, we have no right to pain our +readers. I have had a heavy case of conscience of the same +kind about my Braxfield story. Braxfield—only his +name is Hermiston—has a son who is condemned to death; +plainly, there is a fine tempting fitness about this; and I meant +he was to hang. But now on considering my minor characters, +I saw there were five people who would—in a sense who +must—break prison and attempt his rescue. They were +capable, hardy folks, too, who might very well succeed. Why +should they not then? Why should not young Hermiston escape +clear out of the country? and be happy, if he could, with +his— But soft! I will not betray my secret of +<a name="page269"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 269</span>my +heroine. Suffice it to breathe in your ear that she was +what Hardy calls (and others in their plain way don’t) a +Pure Woman. Much virtue in a capital letter, such as yours +was.</p> +<p>Write to me again in my infinite distance. Tell me about +your new book. No harm in telling <i>me</i>; I am too far +off to be indiscreet; there are too few near me who would care to +hear. I am rushes by the riverside, and the stream is in +Babylon: breathe your secrets to me fearlessly; and if the Trade +Wind caught and carried them away, there are none to catch them +nearer than Australia, unless it were the Tropic Birds. In +the unavoidable absence of my amanuensis, who is buying eels for +dinner, I have thus concluded my despatch, like St. Paul, with my +own hand.</p> +<p>And in the inimitable words of Lord Kames, Faur ye weel, ye +bitch.—Yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to E. L. Burlingame</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima Plantation</i>, +<i>Nov.</i> 2<i>nd</i>, 1892.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BURLINGAME</span>,—In the +first place, I have to acknowledge receipt of your munificent +cheque for three hundred and fifty dollars. Glad you liked +the Scott voyage; rather more than I did upon the whole. As +the proofs have not turned up at all, there can be no question of +returning them, and I am therefore very much pleased to think you +have arranged not to wait. The volumes of Adams arrived +along with yours of October 6th. One of the dictionaries +has also blundered home, apparently from the Colonies; the other +is still to seek. I note and sympathise with your +bewilderment as to <i>Falesà</i>. My own direct +correspondence with Mr. Baxter is now about three months in +abeyance. Altogether you see how well it would be if you +could do anything to wake up the Post Office. Not a single +copy of the ‘Footnote’ has yet reached Samoa, but I +hear of one having <a name="page270"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +270</span>come to its address in Hawaii. Glad to hear good +news of Stoddard.—Yours sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—Since the above was written an aftermath of +post matter came in, among which were the proofs of <i>My +Grandfather</i>. I shall correct and return them, but as I +have lost all confidence in the Post Office, I shall mention +here: first galley, 4th line from the bottom, for ‘<span +class="GutSmall">AS</span>’ read ‘<span +class="GutSmall">OR</span>.’</p> +<p>Should I ever again have to use my work without waiting for +proofs, bear in mind this golden principle. From a +congenital defect, I must suppose, I am unable to write the word +<span class="GutSmall">OR</span>—wherever I write it the +printer unerringly puts <span +class="GutSmall">AS</span>—and those who read for me had +better, wherever it is possible, substitute <i>or</i> for +<i>as</i>. This the more so since many writers have a habit +of using <i>as</i> which is death to my temper and confusion to +my face.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Lieutenant Eeles</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima Plantation</i>, +<i>Upolu</i>, <i>Samoan Islands</i>, <i>November</i> 15<i>th</i>, +1892.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR EELES</span>,—In the first +place, excuse me writing to you by another hand, as that is the +way in which alone all my correspondence gets effected. +Before I took to this method, or rather before I found a victim, +it <i>simply</i> didn’t get effected.</p> +<p>Thank you again and again, first for your kind thought of +writing to me, and second for your extremely amusing and +interesting letter. You can have no guess how immediately +interesting it was to our family. First of all, the poor +soul at Nukufetau is an old friend of ours, and we have actually +treated him ourselves on a former visit to the island. I +don’t know if Hoskin would approve of our treatment; it +consisted, I believe, mostly in a present <a +name="page271"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 271</span>of stout +and a recommendation to put nails in his water-tank. We +also (as you seem to have done) recommended him to leave the +island; and I remember very well how wise and kind we thought his +answer. He had half-caste children (he said) who would +suffer and perhaps be despised if he carried them elsewhere; if +he left them there alone, they would almost certainly miscarry; +and the best thing was that he should stay and die with +them. But the cream of the fun was your meeting with +Burn. We not only know him, but (as the French say) we +don’t know anybody else; he is our intimate and adored +original; and—prepare your mind—he was, is, and ever +will be, <span class="smcap">Tommy Haddon</span>! <a +name="citation271"></a><a href="#footnote271" +class="citation">[271]</a> As I don’t believe you to +be inspired, I suspect you to have suspected this. At least +it was a mighty happy suspicion. You are quite right: Tommy +is really ‘a good chap,’ though about as comic as +they make them.</p> +<p>I was extremely interested in your Fiji legend, and perhaps +even more so in your capital account of the +<i>Curaçoa’s</i> misadventure. Alas! we have +nothing so thrilling to relate. All hangs and fools on in +this isle of misgovernment, without change, though not without +novelty, but wholly without hope, unless perhaps you should +consider it hopeful that I am still more immediately threatened +with arrest. The confounded thing is, that if it comes off, +I shall be sent away in the Ringarooma instead of the +<i>Curaçoa</i>. The former ship burst upon by the +run—she had been sent off by despatch and without +orders—and to make me a little more easy in my mind she +brought newspapers clamouring for my incarceration. Since +then I have had a conversation with the German Consul. He +said he had read a review of my Samoa book, and if the review +were fair, must regard it as an insult, and one that would have +to be resented. At the same time, I learn that letters +addressed to the German squadron lie for them here in the Post +Office. Reports are current of <a name="page272"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 272</span>other English ships being on the +way—I hope to goodness yours will be among the +number. And I gather from one thing and another that there +must be a holy row going on between the powers at home, and that +the issue (like all else connected with Samoa) is on the knees of +the gods. One thing, however, is pretty sure—if that +issue prove to be a German Protectorate, I shall have to +tramp. Can you give us any advice as to a fresh field of +energy? We have been searching the atlas, and it seems +difficult to fill the bill. How would Rarotonga do? I +forget if you have been there. The best of it is that my +new house is going up like winking, and I am dictating this +letter to the accompaniment of saws and hammers. A hundred +black boys and about a score draught-oxen perished, or at least +barely escaped with their lives, from the mud-holes on our road, +bringing up the materials. It will be a fine legacy to +H.I.G.M.’s Protectorate, and doubtless the Governor will +take it for his country-house. The Ringarooma people, by +the way, seem very nice. I liked Stansfield +particularly.</p> +<p>Our middy <a name="citation272"></a><a href="#footnote272" +class="citation">[272]</a> has gone up to San Francisco in +pursuit of the phantom Education. We have good word of him, +and I hope he will not be in disgrace again, as he was when the +hope of the British Navy—need I say that I refer to Admiral +Burney?—honoured us last. The next time you come, as +the new house will be finished, we shall be able to offer you a +bed. Nares and Meiklejohn may like to hear that our new +room is to be big enough to dance in. It will be a very +pleasant day for me to see the Curaçoa in port again and +at least a proper contingent of her officers ‘skipping in +my ’all.’</p> +<p>We have just had a feast on my birthday at which we had three +of the Ringaromas, and I wish they had been three +<i>Curaçoas</i>—say yourself, Hoskin, and Burney the +ever Great. (Consider this an invitation.) Our boys +had got the thing up regardless. There were two huge +sows—<a name="page273"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +273</span>oh, brutes of animals that would have broken down a +hansom cab—four smaller pigs, two barrels of beef, and a +horror of vegetables and fowls. We sat down between forty +and fifty in a big new native house behind the kitchen that you +have never seen, and ate and public spoke till all was +blue. Then we had about half an hour’s holiday with +some beer and sherry and brandy and soda to restrengthen the +European heart, and then out to the old native house to see a +siva. Finally, all the guests were packed off in a +trackless black night and down a road that was rather fitted for +the <i>Curaçoa</i> than any human pedestrian, though to be +sure I do not know the draught of the +<i>Curaçoa</i>. My ladies one and all desire to be +particularly remembered to our friends on board, and all look +forward, as I do myself, in the hope of your return.—Yours +sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>And let me hear from you again!</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">1<i>st</i> <i>Dec.</i> +’92.</p> +<p>. . . I have a novel on the stocks to be called <i>The +Justice-Clerk</i>. It is pretty Scotch, the Grand Premier +is taken from Braxfield—(Oh, by the by, send me +Cockburn’s <i>Memorials</i>)—and some of the story +is—well—queer. The heroine is seduced by one +man, and finally disappears with the other man who shot him. . . +. Mind you, I expect the <i>Justice-Clerk</i> to be my +masterpiece. My Braxfield is already a thing of beauty and +a joy for ever, and so far as he has gone <i>far</i> my best +character.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Later</i>.]</p> +<p>Second thought. I wish Pitcairn’s <i>Criminal +Trials quam primum</i>. Also, an absolutely correct text of +the Scots judiciary oath.</p> +<p><a name="page274"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 274</span>Also, +in case Pitcairn does not come down late enough, I wish as full a +report as possible of a Scotch murder trial between +1790–1820. Understand, <i>the fullest +possible</i>.</p> +<p>Is there any book which would guide me as to the following +facts?</p> +<p>The Justice-Clerk tries some people capitally on +circuit. Certain evidence cropping up, the charge is +transferred to the J.-C.’s own son. Of course, in the +next trial the J.-C. is excluded, and the case is called before +the Lord-Justice General.</p> +<p>Where would this trial have to be? I fear in Edinburgh, +which would not suit my view. Could it be again at the +circuit town?</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Jenkin</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>December</i> 5<i>th</i>, +1892.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MRS. JENKIN</span>,—. . . +So much said, I come with guilty speed to what more immediately +concerns myself. Spare us a month or two for old +sake’s sake, and make my wife and me happy and proud. +We are only fourteen days from San Francisco, just about a month +from Liverpool; we have our new house almost finished. The +thing <i>can</i> be done; I believe we can make you almost +comfortable. It is the loveliest climate in the world, our +political troubles seem near an end. It can be done, it +must! Do, please, make a virtuous effort, come and take a +glimpse of a new world I am sure you do not dream of, and some +old friends who do often dream of your arrival.</p> +<p>Alas, I was just beginning to get eloquent, and there goes the +lunch bell, and after lunch I must make up the mail.</p> +<p>Do come. You must not come in February or +March—bad months. From April on it is +delightful.—Your sincere friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page275"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +275</span><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>December</i> 5<i>th</i>, +1892.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR JAMES</span>,—How comes +it so great a silence has fallen? The still small voice of +self-approval whispers me it is not from me. I have looked +up my register, and find I have neither written to you nor heard +from you since June 22nd, on which day of grace that invaluable +work began. This is not as it should be. How to get +back? I remember acknowledging with rapture the — of +the <i>Master</i>, and I remember receiving <i>Marbot</i>: was +that our last relation?</p> +<p>Hey, well! anyway, as you may have probably gathered from the +papers, I have been in devilish hot water, and (what may be new +to you) devilish hard at work. In twelve calendar months I +finished <i>The Wrecker</i>, wrote all of <i>Falesà</i> +but the first chapter (well, much of), the <i>History of +Samoa</i>, did something here and there to my <i>Life of my +Grandfather</i>, and began And Finished <i>David +Balfour</i>. What do you think of it for a year? +Since then I may say I have done nothing beyond draft three +chapters of another novel, <i>The Justice-Clerk</i>, which ought +to be shorter and a blower—at least if it don’t make +a spoon, it will spoil the horn of an Aurochs (if that’s +how it should be spelt).</p> +<p>On the hot water side it may entertain you to know that I have +been actually sentenced to deportation by my friends on Mulinuu, +C. J. Cedercrantz, and Baron Senfft von Pilsach. The awful +doom, however, declined to fall, owing to Circumstances over +Which. I only heard of it (so to speak) last night. I +mean officially, but I had walked among rumours. The whole +tale will be some day put into my hand, and I shall share it with +humorous friends.</p> +<p>It is likely, however, by my judgment, that this epoch of +gaiety in Samoa will soon cease; and the fierce white <a +name="page276"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 276</span>light of +history will beat no longer on Yours Sincerely and his fellows +here on the beach. We ask ourselves whether the reason will +more rejoice over the end of a disgraceful business, or the +unregenerate man more sorrow over the stoppage of the fun. +For, say what you please, it has been a deeply interesting +time. You don’t know what news is, nor what politics, +nor what the life of man, till you see it on so small a scale and +with your own liberty on the board for stake. I would not +have missed it for much. And anxious friends beg me to stay +at home and study human nature in Brompton drawing-rooms! +<i>Farceurs</i>! And anyway you know that such is not my +talent. I could never be induced to take the faintest +interest in Brompton <i>qua</i> Brompton or a drawing-room +<i>qua</i> a drawing-room. I am an Epick Writer with a k to +it, but without the necessary genius.</p> +<p>Hurry up with another book of stories. I am now reduced +to two of my contemporaries, you and Barrie—O, and +Kipling—you and Barrie and Kipling are now my Muses +Three. And with Kipling, as you know, there are +reservations to be made. And you and Barrie don’t +write enough. I should say I also read Anstey when he is +serious, and can almost always get a happy day out of Marion +Crawford—<i>ce n’est pas toujours la guerre</i>, but +it’s got life to it and guts, and it moves. Did you +read the <i>Witch of Prague</i>? Nobody could read it +twice, of course; and the first time even it was necessary to +skip. <i>E pur si muove</i>. But Barrie is a beauty, +the <i>Little Minister</i> and the <i>Window in Thrums</i>, +eh? Stuff in that young man; but he must see and not be too +funny. Genius in him, but there’s a journalist at his +elbow—there’s the risk. Look, what a page is +the glove business in the <i>Window</i>! knocks a man flat; +that’s guts, if you please.</p> +<p>Why have I wasted the little time that is left with a sort of +naked review article? I don’t know, I’m +sure. I suppose a mere ebullition of congested literary +talk <a name="page277"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 277</span>I +am beginning to think a visit from friends would be due. +Wish you could come!</p> +<p>Let us have your news anyway, and forgive this silly stale +effusion.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to J. M. Barrie</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Vailima</i>, <i>December</i> +1892.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR J. M. BARRIE</span>,—You +will be sick of me soon; I cannot help it. I have been off +my work for some time, and re-read the <i>Edinburgh Eleven</i>, +and had a great mind to write a parody and give you all your +sauce back again, and see how you would like it yourself. +And then I read (for the first time—I know not how) the +<i>Window in Thrums</i>; I don’t say that it is better than +<i>The Minister</i>; it’s less of a tale—and there is +a beauty, a material beauty, of the tale <i>ipse</i>, which +clever critics nowadays long and love to forget; it has more real +flaws; but somehow it is—well, I read it last anyway, and +it’s by Barrie. And he’s the man for my +money. The glove is a great page; it is startlingly +original, and as true as death and judgment. Tibbie Birse +in the Burial is great, but I think it was a journalist that got +in the word ‘official.’ The same character +plainly had a word to say to Thomas Haggard. Thomas affects +me as a lie—I beg your pardon; doubtless he was somebody +you knew, that leads people so far astray. The actual is +not the true.</p> +<p>I am proud to think you are a Scotchman—though to be +sure I know nothing of that country, being only an English +tourist, quo’ Gavin Ogilvy. I commend the hard case +of Mr. Gavin Ogilvy to J. M. Barrie, whose work is to me a source +of living pleasure and heartfelt national pride. There are +two of us now that the Shirra might have <a +name="page278"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 278</span>patted on +the head. And please do not think when I thus seem to +bracket myself with you, that I am wholly blinded with +vanity. Jess is beyond my frontier line; I could not touch +her skirt; I have no such glamour of twilight on my pen. I +am a capable artist; but it begins to look to me as if you were a +man of genius. Take care of yourself, for my sake. +It’s a devilish hard thing for a man who writes so many +novels as I do, that I should get so few to read. And I can +read yours, and I love them.</p> +<p>A pity for you that my amanuensis is not on stock to-day, and +my own hand perceptibly worse than usual.—Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>December</i> 5<i>th</i>, +1892.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—They tell me your health is not +strong. Man, come out here and try the Prophet’s +chamber. There’s only one bad point to us—we do +rise early. The Amanuensis states that you are a lover of +silence—and that ours is a noisy house—and she is a +chatterbox—I am not answerable for these statements, though +I do think there is a touch of garrulity about my premises. +We have so little to talk about, you see. The house is +three miles from town, in the midst of great silent +forests. There is a burn close by, and when we are not +talking you can hear the burn, and the birds, and the sea +breaking on the coast three miles away and six hundred feet below +us, and about three times a month a bell—I don’t know +where the bell is, nor who rings it; it may be the bell in Hans +Andersen’s story for all I know. It is never hot +here—86 in the shade is about our hottest—and it is +never cold except just in the early mornings. Take it for +all in all, I suppose this island climate to be by far the +healthiest in the world—even the influenza entirely lost +its sting. Only two patients died, and one was a man nearly +eighty, and the other a child below four months. I +won’t tell you if it is beautiful, for I want you to come +<a name="page279"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 279</span>here and +see for yourself. Everybody on the premises except my wife +has some Scotch blood in their veins—I beg your +pardon—except the natives—and then my wife is a +Dutchwoman—and the natives are the next thing conceivable +to Highlanders before the forty-five. We would have some +grand cracks!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Come</span>, it will broaden your mind, +and be the making of me.</p> +<h2>XII<br /> +LIFE IN SAMOA,<br /> +<i>Continued</i><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">JANUARY 1893–DECEMBER +1894</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page285"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +285</span><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>April</i>, 1893.]</p> +<p>. . . About <i>The Justice-Clerk</i>, I long to go at it, but +will first try to get a short story done. Since January I +<a name="page286"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 286</span>have had +two severe illnesses, my boy, and some heart-breaking anxiety +over Fanny; and am only now convalescing. I came down to +dinner last night for the first time, and that only because the +service had broken down, and to relieve an inexperienced +servant. Nearly four months now I have rested my brains; +and if it be true that rest is good for brains, I ought to be +able to pitch in like a giant refreshed. Before the autumn, +I hope to send you some <i>Justice-Clerk</i>, or <i>Weir of +Hermiston</i>, as Colvin seems to prefer; I own to +indecision. Received <i>Syntax</i>, <i>Dance of Death</i>, +and <i>Pitcairn</i>, which last I have read from end to end since +its arrival, with vast improvement. What a pity it stops so +soon! I wonder is there nothing that seems to prolong the +series? Why doesn’t some young man take it up? +How about my old friend Fountainhall’s +<i>Decisions</i>? I remember as a boy that there was some +good reading there. Perhaps you could borrow me that, and +send it on loan; and perhaps Laing’s <i>Memorials</i> +therewith; and a work I’m ashamed to say I have never read, +<i>Balfour’s Letters</i>. . . . I have come by accident, +through a correspondent, on one very curious and interesting +fact—namely, that Stevenson was one of the names adopted by +the MacGregors at the proscription. The details supplied by +my correspondent are both convincing and amusing; but it would be +highly interesting to find out more of this.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to A. Conan Doyle</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Apia</i>, +<i>Samoa</i>, <i>April</i> 5<i>th</i>, 1893.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR SIR</span>,—You have taken +many occasions to make yourself very agreeable to me, for which I +might in decency have thanked you earlier. It is now my +turn; and I hope you will allow me to offer you my compliments on +your very ingenious and very interesting adventures of Sherlock +Holmes. That is the class of literature that I like when <a +name="page287"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 287</span>I have the +toothache. As a matter of fact, it was a pleurisy I was +enjoying when I took the volume up; and it will interest you as a +medical man to know that the cure was for the moment +effectual. Only the one thing troubles me: can this be my +old friend Joe Bell?—I am, yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—And lo, here is your address supplied me +here in Samoa! But do not take mine, O frolic fellow +Spookist, from the same source; mine is wrong.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to S. R. Crockett</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>May</i> 17<i>th</i>, 1893.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. CROCKETT</span>,—I do +not owe you two letters, nor yet nearly one, sir! The last +time I heard of you, you wrote about an accident, and I sent you +a letter to my lawyer, Charles Baxter, which does not seem to +have been presented, as I see nothing of it in his +accounts. Query, was that lost? I should not like you +to think I had been so unmannerly and so inhuman. If you +have written since, your letter also has miscarried, as is much +the rule in this part of the world, unless you register.</p> +<p>Your book is not yet to hand, but will probably follow next +month. I detected you early in the <i>Bookman</i>, which I +usually see, and noted you in particular as displaying a +monstrous ingratitude about the footnote. Well, mankind is +ungrateful; ‘Man’s ingratitude to man makes countless +thousands mourn,’ quo’ Rab—or words to that +effect. By the way, an anecdote of a cautious sailor: +‘Bill, Bill,’ says I to him, ‘<i>or words to +that effect</i>.’</p> +<p>I shall never take that walk by the Fisher’s Tryst and +Glencorse. I shall never see Auld Reekie. I shall +never set my foot again upon the heather. Here I am until I +<a name="page288"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 288</span>die, and +here will I be buried. The word is out and the doom +written. Or, if I do come, it will be a voyage to a further +goal, and in fact a suicide; which, however, if I could get my +family all fixed up in the money way, I might, perhaps, perform, +or attempt. But there is a plaguey risk of breaking down by +the way; and I believe I shall stay here until the end comes like +a good boy, as I am. If I did it, I should put upon my +trunks: ‘Passenger to—Hades.’ How +strangely wrong your information is! In the first place, I +should never carry a novel to Sydney; I should post it from +here. In the second place, <i>Weir of Hermiston</i> is as +yet scarce begun. It’s going to be excellent, no +doubt; but it consists of about twenty pages. I have a +tale, a shortish tale in length, but it has proved long to do, +<i>The Ebb Tide</i>, some part of which goes home this +mail. It is by me and Mr. Osbourne, and is really a +singular work. There are only four characters, and three of +them are bandits—well, two of them are, and the third is +their comrade and accomplice. It sounds cheering, +doesn’t it? Barratry, and drunkenness, and vitriol, +and I cannot tell you all what, are the beams of the roof. +And yet—I don’t know—I sort of think +there’s something in it. You’ll see (which is +more than I ever can) whether Davis and Attwater come off or +not.</p> +<p><i>Weir of Hermiston</i> is a much greater undertaking, and +the plot is not good, I fear; but Lord Justice-Clerk Hermiston +ought to be a plum. Of other schemes, more or less +executed, it skills not to speak.</p> +<p>I am glad to hear so good an account of your activity and +interests, and shall always hear from you with pleasure; though I +am, and must continue, a mere sprite of the inkbottle, unseen in +the flesh. Please remember me to your wife and to the +four-year-old sweetheart, if she be not too engrossed with higher +matters. Do you know where the road crosses the burn under +Glencorse Church? Go there, and say a prayer for me: +<i>moriturus salutat</i>. See that it’s a sunny day; +I would like it to be a Sunday, <a name="page289"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 289</span>but that’s not possible in the +premises; and stand on the right-hand bank just where the road +goes down into the water, and shut your eyes, and if I +don’t appear to you! well, it can’t be helped, and +will be extremely funny.</p> +<p>I have no concern here but to work and to keep an eye on this +distracted people. I live just now wholly alone in an upper +room of my house, because the whole family are down with +influenza, bar my wife and myself. I get my horse up +sometimes in the afternoon and have a ride in the woods; and I +sit here and smoke and write, and rewrite, and destroy, and rage +at my own impotence, from six in the morning till eight at night, +with trifling and not always agreeable intervals for meals.</p> +<p>I am sure you chose wisely to keep your country charge. +There a minister can be something, not in a town. In a +town, the most of them are empty houses—and public +speakers. Why should you suppose your book will be slated +because you have no friends? A new writer, if he is any +good, will be acclaimed generally with more noise than he +deserves. But by this time you will know for +certain.—I am, yours sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—Be it known to this fluent generation that I +R. L. S., in the forty-third of my age and the twentieth of my +professional life, wrote twenty-four pages in twenty-one days, +working from six to eleven, and again in the afternoon from two +to four or so, without fail or interruption. Such are the +gifts the gods have endowed us withal: such was the facility of +this prolific writer!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Augustus St. Gaudens</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>May</i> 29<i>th</i>, 1893</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOD-LIKE +SCULPTOR</span>,—I wish in the most delicate manner in the +world to insinuate a few commissions:—</p> +<p>No. 1. Is for a couple of copies of my medallion, as <a +name="page290"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 290</span>gilt-edged +and high-toned as it is possible to make them. One is for +our house here, and should be addressed as above. The other +is for my friend Sidney Colvin, and should be +addressed—Sidney Colvin, Esq., Keeper of the Print Room, +British Museum, London.</p> +<p>No. 2. This is a rather large order, and demands some +explanation. Our house is lined with varnished wood of a +dark ruddy colour, very beautiful to see; at the same time, it +calls very much for gold; there is a limit to picture frames, and +really you know there has to be a limit to the pictures you put +inside of them. Accordingly, we have had an idea of a +certain kind of decoration, which, I think, you might help us to +make practical. What we want is an alphabet of gilt letters +(very much such as people play with), and all mounted on spikes +like drawing-pins; say two spikes to each letter, one at top, and +one at bottom. Say that they were this height, +<a href="images/p290b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"large letter capital I about 4 times bigger than normal size" +title= +"large letter capital I about 4 times bigger than normal size" + src="images/p290s.jpg" /> +</a> and that you chose a model of some really exquisitely fine, +clear type from some Roman monument, and that they were made +either of metal or some composition gilt—the point is, +could not you, in your land of wooden houses, get a manufacturer +to take the idea and manufacture them at a venture, so that I +could get two or three hundred pieces or so at a moderate +figure? You see, suppose you entertain an honoured guest, +when he goes he leaves his name in gilt letters on your walls; an +infinity of fun and decoration can be got out of hospitable and +festive mottoes; and the doors of every room can be beautified by +the legend of their names. I really think there is +something in the idea, and you might be able to push it with the +brutal and licentious manufacturer, using my name if necessary, +though I should think the name of the god-like sculptor would be +more germane. In case you should get it started, I should +tell you that we should require commas in order to write the +Samoan language, which is full of words written thus: <a +name="page291"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 291</span>la’u, +ti’e ti’e. As the Samoan language uses but a +very small proportion of the consonants, we should require a +double or treble stock of all vowels and of F, G, L, U, N, P, S, +T, and V.</p> +<p>The other day in Sydney, I think you might be interested to +hear, I was sculpt a second time by a man called —, as well +as I can remember and read. I mustn’t criticise a +present, and he had very little time to do it in. It is +thought by my family to be an excellent likeness of Mark +Twain. This poor fellow, by the by, met with the devil of +an accident. A model of a statue which he had just finished +with a desperate effort was smashed to smithereens on its way to +exhibition.</p> +<p>Please be sure and let me know if anything is likely to come +of this letter business, and the exact cost of each letter, so +that I may count the cost before ordering.—Yours +sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>June</i> 10<i>th</i>, 1893.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR GOSSE</span>,—My mother +tells me you never received the very long and careful letter that +I sent you more than a year ago; or is it two years?</p> +<p>I was indeed so much surprised at your silence that I wrote to +Henry James and begged him to inquire if you had received it; his +reply was an (if possible) higher power of the same silence; +whereupon I bowed my head and acquiesced. But there is no +doubt the letter was written and sent; and I am sorry it was +lost, for it contained, among other things, an irrecoverable +criticism of your father’s <i>Life</i>, with a number of +suggestions for another edition, which struck me at the time as +excellent.</p> +<p>Well, suppose we call that cried off, and begin as <a +name="page292"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +292</span>before? It is fortunate indeed that we can do so, +being both for a while longer in the day. But, alas! when I +see ‘works of the late J. A. S.,’ <a +name="citation292"></a><a href="#footnote292" +class="citation">[292]</a> I can see no help and no +reconciliation possible. I wrote him a letter, I think, +three years ago, heard in some roundabout way that he had +received it, waited in vain for an answer (which had probably +miscarried), and in a humour between frowns and smiles wrote to +him no more. And now the strange, poignant, pathetic, +brilliant creature is gone into the night, and the voice is +silent that uttered so much excellent discourse; and I am sorry +that I did not write to him again. Yet I am glad for him; +light lie the turf! The <i>Saturday</i> is the only +obituary I have seen, and I thought it very good upon the +whole. I should be half tempted to write an <i>In +Memoriam</i>, but I am submerged with other work. Are you +going to do it? I very much admire your efforts that way; +you are our only academician.</p> +<p>So you have tried fiction? I will tell you the truth: +when I saw it announced, I was so sure you would send it to me, +that I did not order it! But the order goes this mail, and +I will give you news of it. Yes, honestly, fiction is very +difficult; it is a terrible strain to <i>carry</i> your +characters all that time. And the difficulty of according +the narrative and the dialogue (in a work in the third person) is +extreme. That is one reason out of half a dozen why I so +often prefer the first. It is much in my mind just now, +because of my last work, just off the stocks three days ago, +<i>The Ebb Tide</i>: a dreadful, grimy business in the third +person, where the strain between a vilely realistic dialogue and +a narrative style pitched about (in phrase) ‘four notes +higher’ than it should have been, has sown my head with +grey hairs; or I believe so—if my head escaped, my heart +has them.</p> +<p>The truth is, I have a little lost my way, and stand bemused +at the cross-roads. A subject? Ay, I have dozens; I +have at least four novels begun, they are none <a +name="page293"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 293</span>good +enough; and the mill waits, and I’ll have to take second +best. <i>The Ebb Tide</i> I make the world a present of; I +expect, and, I suppose, deserve to be torn to pieces; but there +was all that good work lying useless, and I had to finish it!</p> +<p>All your news of your family is pleasant to hear. My +wife has been very ill, but is now better; I may say I am ditto, +<i>The Ebb Tide</i> having left me high and dry, which is a good +example of the mixed metaphor. Our home, and estate, and +our boys, and the politics of the island, keep us perpetually +amused and busy; and I grind away with an odd, dogged, down +sensation—and an idea <i>in petto</i> that the game is +about played out. I have got too realistic, and I must +break the trammels—I mean I would if I could; but the yoke +is heavy. I saw with amusement that Zola says the same +thing; and truly the <i>Débâcle</i> was a mighty big +book, I have no need for a bigger, though the last part is a mere +mistake in my opinion. But the Emperor, and Sedan, and the +doctor at the ambulance, and the horses in the field of battle, +Lord, how gripped it is! What an epical performance! +According to my usual opinion, I believe I could go over that +book and leave a masterpiece by blotting and no ulterior +art. But that is an old story, ever new with me. +Taine gone, and Renan, and Symonds, and Tennyson, and Browning; +the suns go swiftly out, and I see no suns to follow, nothing but +a universal twilight of the demi-divinities, with parties like +you and me and Lang beating on toy drums and playing on penny +whistles about glow-worms. But Zola is big anyway; he has +plenty in his belly; too much, that is all; he wrote the +<i>Débâcle</i> and he wrote <i>La Bête +humaine</i>, perhaps the most excruciatingly silly book that I +ever read to an end. And why did I read it to an end, W. E. +G.? Because the animal in me was interested in the +lewdness. Not sincerely, of course, my mind refusing to +partake in it; but the flesh was slightly pleased. And when +it was done, I cast it from me with a peal of <a +name="page294"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 294</span>laughter, +and forgot it, as I would forget a Montépin. Taine +is to me perhaps the chief of these losses; I did luxuriate in +his <i>Origines</i>; it was something beyond literature, not +quite so good, if you please, but so much more systematic, and +the pages that had to be ‘written’ always so +adequate. Robespierre, Napoleon, were both excellent +good.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>June</i> 18<i>th</i>, +’93</p> +<p>Well, I have left fiction wholly, and gone to my +<i>Grandfather</i>, and on the whole found peace. By next +month my <i>Grandfather</i> will begin to be quite grown +up. I have already three chapters about as good as done; by +which, of course, as you know, I mean till further notice or the +next discovery. I like biography far better than fiction +myself: fiction is too free. In biography you have your +little handful of facts, little bits of a puzzle, and you sit and +think, and fit ’em together this way and that, and get up +and throw ’em down, and say damn, and go out for a +walk. And it’s real soothing; and when done, gives an +idea of finish to the writer that is very peaceful. Of +course, it’s not really so finished as quite a rotten +novel; it always has and always must have the incurable +illogicalities of life about it, the fathoms of slack and the +miles of tedium. Still, that’s where the fun comes +in; and when you have at last managed to shut up the castle +spectre (dulness), the very outside of his door looks beautiful +by contrast. There are pages in these books that may seem +nothing to the reader; but you <i>remember what they were</i>, +<i>you know what they might have been</i>, and they seem to you +witty beyond comparison. In my <i>Grandfather</i> +I’ve had (for instance) to give up the temporal order +almost entirely; doubtless the temporal order is the great foe of +the biographer; it is so tempting, so easy, and lo! there you are +in the bog!—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>With all kind messages from self and wife to you and +yours. My wife is very much better, having been the <a +name="page295"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 295</span>early part +of this year alarmingly ill. She is now all right, only +complaining of trifles, annoying to her, but happily not +interesting to her friends. I am in a hideous state, having +stopped drink and smoking; yes, both. No wine, no tobacco; +and the dreadful part of it is that—looking forward—I +have—what shall I say?—nauseating intimations that it +ought to be for ever.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima Plantation</i>, <i>Samoan +Islands</i>, <i>June</i> 17<i>th</i>, 1893.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENRY JAMES</span>,—I +believe I have neglected a mail in answering yours. You +will be very sorry to hear that my wife was exceedingly ill, and +very glad to hear that she is better. I cannot say that I +feel any more anxiety about her. We shall send you a +photograph of her taken in Sydney in her customary island habit +as she walks and gardens and shrilly drills her brown +assistants. She was very ill when she sat for it, which may +a little explain the appearance of the photograph. It +reminds me of a friend of my grandmother’s who used to say +when talking to younger women, ‘Aweel, when I was young, I +wasnae just exactly what ye wad call <i>bonny</i>, but I was +pale, penetratin’, and interestin’.’ I +would not venture to hint that Fanny is ‘no bonny,’ +but there is no doubt but that in this presentment she is +‘pale, penetratin’, and interesting.’</p> +<p>As you are aware, I have been wading deep waters and +contending with the great ones of the earth, not wholly without +success. It is, you may be interested to hear, a dreary and +infuriating business. If you can get the fools to admit one +thing, they will always save their face by denying another. +If you can induce them to take a step to the right hand, they +generally indemnify themselves by cutting a caper to the +left. I always held (upon no evidence whatever, from a mere +sentiment or intuition) that politics was the dirtiest, the most +foolish, and the <a name="page296"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +296</span>most random of human employments. I always held, +but now I know it! Fortunately, you have nothing to do with +anything of the kind, and I may spare you the horror of further +details.</p> +<p>I received from you a book by a man by the name of Anatole +France. Why should I disguise it? I have no use for +Anatole. He writes very prettily, and then +afterwards? Baron Marbot was a different pair of +shoes. So likewise is the Baron de Vitrolles, whom I am now +perusing with delight. His escape in 1814 is one of the +best pages I remember anywhere to have read. But Marbot and +Vitrolles are dead, and what has become of the living? It +seems as if literature were coming to a stand. I am sure it +is with me; and I am sure everybody will say so when they have +the privilege of reading <i>The Ebb Tide</i>. My dear man, +the grimness of that story is not to be depicted in words. +There are only four characters, to be sure, but they are such a +troop of swine! And their behaviour is really so deeply +beneath any possible standard, that on a retrospect I wonder I +have been able to endure them myself until the yarn was +finished. Well, there is always one thing; it will serve as +a touchstone. If the admirers of Zola admire him for his +pertinent ugliness and pessimism, I think they should admire +this; but if, as I have long suspected, they neither admire nor +understand the man’s art, and only wallow in his rancidness +like a hound in offal, then they will certainly be disappointed +in <i>The Ebb Tide</i>. <i>Alas</i>! poor little tale, it +is not <i>even</i> rancid.</p> +<p>By way of an antidote or febrifuge, I am going on at a great +rate with my <i>History of the Stevensons</i>, which I hope may +prove rather amusing, in some parts at least. The excess of +materials weighs upon me. My grandfather is a delightful +comedy part; and I have to treat him besides as a serious and (in +his way) a heroic figure, and at times I lose my way, and I fear +in the end will blur the effect. However, <i>à la +grâce de Dieu</i>! I’ll make <a +name="page297"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 297</span>a spoon or +spoil a horn. You see, I have to do the Building of the +Bell Rock by cutting down and packing my grandsire’s book, +which I rather hope I have done, but do not know. And it +makes a huge chunk of a very different style and quality between +Chapters <span class="GutSmall">II</span>. and <span +class="GutSmall">IV</span>. And it can’t be +helped! It is just a delightful and exasperating +necessity. You know, the stuff is really excellent +narrative: only, perhaps there’s too much of it! +There is the rub. Well, well, it will be plain to you that +my mind is affected; it might be with less. <i>The Ebb +Tide</i> and <i>Northern Lights</i> are a full meal for any plain +man.</p> +<p>I have written and ordered your last book, <i>The Real +Thing</i>, so be sure and don’t send it. What else +are you doing or thinking of doing? News I have none, and +don’t want any. I have had to stop all strong drink +and all tobacco, and am now in a transition state between the +two, which seems to be near madness. You never smoked, I +think, so you can never taste the joys of stopping it. But +at least you have drunk, and you can enter perhaps into my +annoyance when I suddenly find a glass of claret or a +brandy-and-water give me a splitting headache the next +morning. No mistake about it; drink anything, and +there’s your headache. Tobacco just as bad for +me. If I live through this breach of habit, I shall be a +white-livered puppy indeed. Actually I am so made, or so +twisted, that I do not like to think of a life without the red +wine on the table and the tobacco with its lovely little coal of +fire. It doesn’t amuse me from a distance. I +may find it the Garden of Eden when I go in, but I don’t +like the colour of the gate-posts. Suppose somebody said to +you, you are to leave your home, and your books, and your clubs, +and go out and camp in mid-Africa, and command an expedition, you +would howl, and kick, and flee. I think the same of a life +without wine and tobacco; and if this goes on, I’ve got to +go and do it, sir, in the living flesh!</p> +<p>I thought Bourget was a friend of yours? And I thought +the French were a polite race? He has taken <a +name="page298"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 298</span>my +dedication with a stately silence that has surprised me into +apoplexy. Did I go and dedicate my book <a +name="citation298a"></a><a href="#footnote298a" +class="citation">[298a]</a> to the nasty alien, and the +’norrid Frenchman, and the Bloody Furrineer? Well, I +wouldn’t do it again; and unless his case is susceptible of +explanation, you might perhaps tell him so over the walnuts and +the wine, by way of speeding the gay hours. Sincerely, I +thought my dedication worth a letter.</p> +<p>If anything be worth anything here below! Do you know +the story of the man who found a button in his hash, and called +the waiter? ‘What do you call that?’ says +he. ‘Well,’ said the waiter, ‘what +d’you expect? Expect to find a gold watch and +chain?’ Heavenly apologue, is it not? I +expected (rather) to find a gold watch and chain; I expected to +be able to smoke to excess and drink to comfort all the days of +my life; and I am still indignantly staring on this button! +It’s not even a button; it’s a teetotal +badge!—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Apia</i>, <i>July</i> 1893.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENRY +JAMES</span>,—Yes. <i>Les Trophées</i>, on the +whole, a book. <a name="citation298b"></a><a href="#footnote298b" +class="citation">[298b]</a> It is excellent; but is it a +life’s work? I always suspect <i>you</i> of a volume +of sonnets up your sleeve; when is it coming down? I am in +one of my moods of wholesale impatience with all fiction and all +verging on it, reading instead, with rapture, +<i>Fountainhall’s Decisions</i>. You never read it: +well, it hasn’t much form, and is inexpressibly dreary, I +should suppose, to others—and even to me for pages. +It’s like walking in a mine underground, and with a damned +bad lantern, and picking out pieces of ore. This, and war, +will be my excuse for not having read your (doubtless) charming +work of fiction. <a name="page299"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 299</span>The revolving year will bring me +round to it; and I know, when fiction shall begin to feel a +little <i>solid</i> to me again, that I shall love it, because +it’s James. Do you know, when I am in this mood, I +would rather try to read a bad book? It’s not so +disappointing, anyway. And <i>Fountainhall</i> is prime, +two big folio volumes, and all dreary, and all true, and all as +terse as an obituary; and about one interesting fact on an +average in twenty pages, and ten of them unintelligible for +technicalities. There’s literature, if you +like! It feeds; it falls about you genuine like rain. +Rain: nobody has done justice to rain in literature yet: surely a +subject for a Scot. But then you can’t do rain in +that ledger-book style that I am trying for—or between a +ledger-book and an old ballad. How to get over, how to +escape from, the besotting <i>particularity</i> of fiction. +‘Roland approached the house; it had green doors and window +blinds; and there was a scraper on the upper step.’ +To hell with Roland and the scraper!—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to A. Conan Doyle</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>July</i> 12, +1893.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR DR. CONAN +DOYLE</span>,—The <i>White Company</i> has not yet turned +up; but when it does—which I suppose will be next +mail—you shall hear news of me. I have a great talent +for compliment, accompanied by a hateful, even a diabolic +frankness.</p> +<p>Delighted to hear I have a chance of seeing you and Mrs. +Doyle; Mrs. Stevenson bids me say (what is too true) that our +rations are often spare. Are you Great Eaters? Please +reply.</p> +<p>As to ways and means, here is what you will have to do. +Leave San Francisco by the down mail, get off at Samoa, and +twelve days or a fortnight later, you can continue your journey +to Auckland per Upolu, which will give you a look at Tonga and +possibly Fiji by the way. <a name="page300"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 300</span>Make this a <i>first part of your +plans</i>. A fortnight, even of Vailima diet, could kill +nobody.</p> +<p>We are in the midst of war here; rather a nasty business, with +the head-taking; and there seem signs of other trouble. But +I believe you need make no change in your design to visit +us. All should be well over; and if it were not, why! you +need not leave the steamer.—Yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">19<i>th</i> <i>July</i> +’93.</p> +<p>. . . We are in the thick of war—see <i>Illustrated +London News</i>—we have only two outside boys left to +us. Nothing is doing, and <i>per contra</i> little paying. +. . My life here is dear; but I can live within my income +for a time at least—so long as my prices keep up—and +it seems a clear duty to waste none of it on gadding about. . . +. My life of my family fills up intervals, and should be an +excellent book when it is done, but big, damnably big.</p> +<p>My dear old man, I perceive by a thousand signs that we grow +old, and are soon to pass away! I hope with dignity; if +not, with courage at least. I am myself very ready; or +would be—will be—when I have made a little money for +my folks. The blows that have fallen upon you are truly +terrifying; I wish you strength to bear them. It is +strange, I must seem to you to blaze in a Birmingham prosperity +and happiness; and to myself I seem a failure. The truth +is, I have never got over the last influenza yet, and am +miserably out of heart and out of kilter. Lungs pretty +right, stomach nowhere, spirits a good deal overshadowed; but +we’ll come through it yet, and cock our bonnets. (I +confess with sorrow that I am not yet quite sure about the +<i>intellects</i>; but I hope it is only one of my usual periods +of non-work. They are more unbearable now, because I cannot +rest. <i>No rest but the grave for Sir Walter</i>! O +the words ring in a man’s head.)</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page301"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +301</span><span class="smcap">to A. Conan Doyle</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>August</i> +23<i>rd</i>, 1893.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR DR. CONAN DOYLE</span>,—I +am reposing after a somewhat severe experience upon which I think +it my duty to report to you. Immediately after dinner this +evening it occurred to me to re-narrate to my native overseer +Simelè your story of <i>The Engineer’s +Thumb</i>. And, sir, I have done it. It was +necessary, I need hardly say, to go somewhat farther afield than +you have done. To explain (for instance) what a railway is, +what a steam hammer, what a coach and horse, what coining, what a +criminal, and what the police. I pass over other and no +less necessary explanations. But I did actually succeed; +and if you could have seen the drawn, anxious features and the +bright, feverish eyes of Simelè, you would have (for the +moment at least) tasted glory. You might perhaps think +that, were you to come to Samoa, you might be introduced as the +Author of <i>The Engineer’s Thumb</i>. Disabuse +yourself. They do not know what it is to make up a +story. <i>The Engineer’s Thumb</i> (God forgive me) +was narrated as a piece of actual and factual history. Nay, +and more, I who write to you have had the indiscretion to +perpetrate a trifling piece of fiction entitled <i>The Bottle +Imp</i>. Parties who come up to visit my unpretentious +mansion, after having admired the ceilings by Vanderputty and the +tapestry by Gobbling, manifest towards the end a certain +uneasiness which proves them to be fellows of an infinite +delicacy. They may be seen to shrug a brown shoulder, to +roll up a speaking eye, and at last secret bursts from them: +‘Where is the bottle?’ Alas, my friends (I feel +tempted to say), you will find it by the Engineer’s +Thumb! Talofa-soifuia.</p> +<p>Oa’u, O lau no moni, O Tusitala.</p> +<p>More commonly known as,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><a name="page302"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 302</span>Have +read the <i>Refugees</i>; Condé and old P. Murat very +good; Louis <span class="GutSmall">XIV</span>. and Louvois with +the letter bag very rich. You have reached a trifle wide +perhaps; too <i>many</i> celebrities? Though I was +delighted to re-encounter my old friend Du Chaylu. Old +Murat is perhaps your high water mark; ’tis excellently +human, cheerful and real. Do it again. Madame de +Maintenon struck me as quite good. Have you any document +for the decapitation? It sounds steepish. The devil +of all that first part is that you see old Dumas; yet your Louis +<span class="GutSmall">XIV</span>. is <i>distinctly +good</i>. I am much interested with this book, which +fulfils a good deal, and promises more. Question: How far a +Historical Novel should be wholly episodic? I incline to +that view, with trembling. I shake hands with you on old +Murat.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to George Meredith</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Sept.</i> 5<i>th</i>, 1893, +<i>Vailima Plantation</i>, <i>Upolu</i>, <i>Samoa</i>.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MEREDITH</span>,—I have +again and again taken up the pen to write to you, and many +beginnings have gone into the waste paper basket (I have one +now—for the second time in my life—and feel a big man +on the strength of it). And no doubt it requires some +decision to break so long a silence. My health is vastly +restored, and I am now living patriarchally in this place six +hundred feet above the sea on the shoulder of a mountain of +1500. Behind me, the unbroken bush slopes up to the +backbone of the island (3 to 4000) without a house, with no +inhabitants save a few runaway black boys, wild pigs and cattle, +and wild doves and flying foxes, and many parti-coloured birds, +and many black, and many white: a very eerie, dim, strange place +and hard to travel. I am <a name="page303"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 303</span>the head of a household of five +whites, and of twelve Samoans, to all of whom I am the chief and +father: my cook comes to me and asks leave to marry—and his +mother, a fine old chief woman, who has never lived here, does +the same. You may be sure I granted the petition. It +is a life of great interest, complicated by the Tower of Babel, +that old enemy. And I have all the time on my hands for +literary work. My house is a great place; we have a hall +fifty feet long with a great red-wood stair ascending from it, +where we dine in state—myself usually dressed in a singlet +and a pair of trousers—and attended on by servants in a +single garment, a kind of kilt—also flowers and +leaves—and their hair often powdered with lime. The +European who came upon it suddenly would think it was a +dream. We have prayers on Sunday night—I am a perfect +pariah in the island not to have them oftener, but the spirit is +unwilling and the flesh proud, and I cannot go it more. It +is strange to see the long line of the brown folk crouched along +the wall with lanterns at intervals before them in the big +shadowy hall, with an oak cabinet at one end of it and a group of +Rodin’s (which native taste regards as <i>prodigieusement +leste</i>) presiding over all from the top—and to hear the +long rambling Samoan hymn rolling up (God bless me, what +style! But I am off business to-day, and this is not meant +to be literature.).</p> +<p>I have asked Colvin to send you a copy of <i>Catriona</i>, +which I am sometimes tempted to think is about my best +work. I hear word occasionally of the <i>Amazing +Marriage</i>. It will be a brave day for me when I get hold +of it. Gower Woodseer is now an ancient, lean, grim, exiled +Scot, living and labouring as for a wager in the tropics; still +active, still with lots of fire in him, but the youth—ah, +the youth where is it? For years after I came here, the +critics (those genial gentlemen) used to deplore the relaxation +of my fibre and the idleness to which I had <a +name="page304"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +304</span>succumbed. I hear less of this now; the next +thing is they will tell me I am writing myself out! and that my +unconscientious conduct is bringing their grey hairs with sorrow +to the dust. I do not know—I mean I do know one +thing. For fourteen years I have not had a day’s real +health; I have wakened sick and gone to bed weary; and I have +done my work unflinchingly. I have written in bed, and +written out of it, written in hemorrhages, written in sickness, +written torn by coughing, written when my head swam for weakness; +and for so long, it seems to me I have won my wager and recovered +my glove. I am better now, have been rightly speaking since +first I came to the Pacific; and still, few are the days when I +am not in some physical distress. And the battle goes +on—ill or well, is a trifle; so as it goes. I was +made for a contest, and the Powers have so willed that my +battlefield should be this dingy, inglorious one of the bed and +the physic bottle. At least I have not failed, but I would +have preferred a place of trumpetings and the open air over my +head.</p> +<p>This is a devilish egotistical yarn. Will you try to +imitate me in that if the spirit ever moves you to reply? +And meantime be sure that away in the midst of the Pacific there +is a house on a wooded island where the name of George Meredith +is very dear, and his memory (since it must be no more) is +continually honoured.—Ever your friend,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p>Remember me to Mariette, if you please; and my wife sends her +most kind remembrances to yourself.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page305"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +305</span><span class="smcap">to Augustus St. Gaudens</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>September</i> +1893.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR ST. GAUDENS</span>,—I had +determined not to write to you till I had seen the medallion, but +it looks as if that might mean the Greek Kalends or the day after +to-morrow. Reassure yourself, your part is done, it is ours +that halts—the consideration of conveyance over our sweet +little road on boys’ backs, for we cannot very well apply +the horses to this work; there is only one; you cannot put it in +a panier; to put it on the horse’s back we have not the +heart. Beneath the beauty of R. L. S., to say nothing of +his verses, which the publishers find heavy enough, and the +genius of the god-like sculptor, the spine would snap and the +well-knit limbs of the (ahem) cart-horse would be loosed by +death. So you are to conceive me, sitting in my house, +dubitative, and the medallion chuckling in the warehouse of the +German firm, for some days longer; and hear me meanwhile on the +golden letters.</p> +<p>Alas! they are all my fancy painted, but the price is +prohibitive. I cannot do it. It is another day-dream +burst. Another gable of Abbotsford has gone down, +fortunately before it was builded, so there’s nobody +injured—except me. I had a strong conviction that I +was a great hand at writing inscriptions, and meant to exhibit +and test my genius on the walls of my house; and now I see I +can’t. It is generally thus. The Battle of the +Golden Letters will never be delivered. On making +preparation to open the campaign, the King found himself face to +face with invincible difficulties, in which the rapacity of a +mercenary soldiery and the complaints of an impoverished treasury +played an equal part.—Ever yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><a name="page306"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 306</span>I +enclose a bill for the medallion; have been trying to find your +letter, quite in vain, and therefore must request you to pay for +the bronze letters yourself and let me know the damage.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to J. Horne Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>November</i> 5<i>th</i>, 1893.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR STEVENSON</span>,—A +thousand thanks for your voluminous and delightful +collections. Baxter—so soon as it is ready—will +let you see a proof of my introduction, which is only sent out as +a sprat to catch whales. And you will find I have a good +deal of what you have, only mine in a perfectly desultory manner, +as is necessary to an exile. My uncle’s pedigree is +wrong; there was never a Stevenson of Caldwell, of course, but +they were tenants of the Muirs; the farm held by them is in my +introduction; and I have already written to Charles Baxter to +have a search made in the Register House. I hope he will +have had the inspiration to put it under your surveillance. +Your information as to your own family is intensely interesting, +and I should not wonder but what you and we and old John +Stevenson, ‘land labourer in the parish of Dailly,’ +came all of the same stock. Ayrshire—and probably +Cunningham—seems to be the home of the race—our part +of it. From the distribution of the name—which your +collections have so much extended without essentially changing my +knowledge of—we seem rather pointed to a <a +name="page307"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 307</span>British +origin. What you say of the Engineers is fresh to me, and +must be well thrashed out. This introduction of it will +take a long while to walk about!—as perhaps I may be +tempted to let it become long; after all, I am writing +<i>this</i> for my own pleasure solely. Greetings to you +and other Speculatives of our date, long bygone, +alas!—Yours very sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—I have a different version of my +grandfather’s arms—or my father had if I could find +it.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h2><span class="smcap">to John</span> P—N</h2> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>December</i> 3<i>rd</i>, 1893.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR JOHNNIE</span>,—Well, I must +say you seem to be a tremendous fellow! Before I was eight +I used to write stories—or dictate them at least—and +I had produced an excellent history of Moses, for which I got +£1 from an uncle; but I had never gone the length of a +play, so you have beaten me fairly on my own ground. I hope +you may continue to do so, and thanking you heartily for your +nice letter, I shall beg you to believe me yours truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Russell</span> P—N</h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>December</i> 3<i>rd</i>, 1893.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR RUSSELL</span>,—I have to +thank you very much for your capital letter, which came to hand +here in Samoa <a name="page308"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +308</span>along with your mother’s. When you +‘grow up and write stories like me,’ you will be able +to understand that there is scarce anything more painful than for +an author to hold a pen; he has to do it so much that his heart +sickens and his fingers ache at the sight or touch of it; so that +you will excuse me if I do not write much, but remain (with +compliments and greetings from one Scot to another—though I +was not born in Ceylon—you’re ahead of me +there).—Yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Alison Cunningham</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>December</i> 5, +1893.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAREST CUMMY</span>,—This +goes to you with a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. +The Happy New Year anyway, for I think it should reach you about +<i>Noor’s Day</i>. I dare say it may be cold and +frosty. Do you remember when you used to take me out of bed +in the early morning, carry me to the back windows, show me the +hills of Fife, and quote to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘A’ the hills are covered wi’ +snaw,<br /> + An’ winter’s noo come fairly’?</p> +<p>There is not much chance of that here! I wonder how my +mother is going to stand the winter. If she can, it will be +a very good thing for her. We are in that part of the year +which I like the best—the Rainy or Hurricane Season. +‘When it is good, it is very, very good; and when it is +bad, it is horrid,’ and our fine days are certainly fine +like heaven; such a blue of the sea, such green of the trees, and +such crimson of the hibiscus flowers, you never saw; and the air +as mild and gentle as a baby’s breath, and yet not hot!</p> +<p><a name="page309"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 309</span>The +mail is on the move, and I must let up.—With much love, I +am, your laddie,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">6<i>th</i> <i>December</i> 1893.</p> +<blockquote><p>‘<i>October</i> 25, 1685.—At Privy +Council, George Murray, Lieutenant of the King’s Guard, and +others, did, on the 21st of September last, obtain a clandestine +order of Privy Council to apprehend the person of Janet Pringle, +daughter to the late Clifton, and she having retired out of the +way upon information, he got an order against Andrew Pringle, her +uncle, to produce her. . . . But she having married Andrew +Pringle, her uncle’s son (to disappoint all their designs +of selling her), a boy of thirteen years old.’ But my +boy is to be fourteen, so I extract no further.—<span +class="smcap">Fountainhall</span>, i. 320.</p> +<p>‘<i>May</i> 6, 1685.—Wappus Pringle of Clifton was +still alive after all, and in prison for debt, and transacts with +Lieutenant Murray, giving security for 7000 +marks.’—i. 372.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>No, it seems to have been <i>her</i> brother who had +succeeded.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—The above +is my story, and I wonder if any light can be thrown on it. +I prefer the girl’s father dead; and the question is, How +in that case could Lieutenant George Murray get his order to +‘apprehend’ and his power to ‘sell’ her +in marriage?</p> +<p><a name="page310"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +310</span>Or—might Lieutenant G. be her tutor, and she +fugitive to the Pringles, and on the discovery of her whereabouts +hastily married?</p> +<p>A good legal note on these points is very ardently desired by +me; it will be the corner-stone of my novel.</p> +<p>This is for—I am quite wrong to tell you—for you +will tell others—and nothing will teach you that all my +schemes are in the air, and vanish and reappear again like shapes +in the clouds—it is for <i>Heathercat</i>: whereof the +first volume will be called <i>The Killing Time</i>, and I +believe I have authorities ample for that. But the second +volume is to be called (I believe) <i>Darien</i>, and for that I +want, I fear, a good deal of truck:—</p> +<p class="gutindent"><i>Darien Papers</i>,<br /> +<i>Carstairs Papers</i>,<br /> +<i>Marchmont Papers</i>,<br /> +<i>Jerviswoode Correspondence</i>,</p> +<p>I hope may do me. Some sort of general history of the +Darien affair (if there is a decent one, which I misdoubt), it +would also be well to have—the one with most details, if +possible. It is singular how obscure to me this decade of +Scots history remains, 1690–1700—a deuce of a want of +light and grouping to it! However, I believe I shall be +mostly out of Scotland in my tale; first in Carolina, next in +Darien. I want also—I am the daughter of the +horse-leech truly—‘Black’s new large map of +Scotland,’ sheets 3, 4, and 5, a 7s. 6d. touch. I +believe, if you can get the</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Caldwell Papers</i>,</p> +<p>they had better come also; and if there be any reasonable +work—but no, I must call a halt. . . .</p> +<p>I fear the song looks doubtful, but I’ll consider of it, +and I can promise you some reminiscences which it will amuse me +to write, whether or not it will amuse the public to read of +them. But it’s an unco business to <i>supply</i> +deid-heid coapy.</p> +<h3><a name="page311"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +311</span><span class="smcap">to J. M. Barrie</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>December</i> 7<i>th</i>, 1893.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BARRIE</span>,—I have +received duly the <i>magnum opus</i>, and it really is a +<i>magnum opus</i>. <a name="citation311"></a><a +href="#footnote311" class="citation">[311]</a> It is a +beautiful specimen of Clark’s printing, paper sufficient, +and the illustrations all my fancy painted. But the +particular flower of the flock to whom I have hopelessly lost my +heart is Tibby Birse. I must have known Tibby Birse when +she was a servant’s mantua-maker in Edinburgh and answered +to the name of Miss <i>Broddie</i>. She used to come and +sew with my nurse, sitting with her legs crossed in a masculine +manner; and swinging her foot emphatically, she used to pour +forth a perfectly unbroken stream of gossip. I didn’t +hear it, I was immersed in far more important business with a box +of bricks, but the recollection of that thin, perpetual, shrill +sound of a voice has echoed in my ears sinsyne. I am bound +to say she was younger than Tibbie, but there is no mistaking +that and the indescribable and eminently Scottish expression.</p> +<p>I have been very much prevented of late, having carried out +thoroughly to my own satisfaction two considerable illnesses, had +a birthday, and visited Honolulu, where politics are (if +possible) a shade more exasperating than they are with us. +I am told that it was just when I was on the point of leaving +that I received your superlative epistle about the cricket +eleven. In that case it is impossible I should have +answered it, which is inconsistent with my own recollection of +the fact. What I remember is, that I sat down under your +immediate inspiration and wrote an answer in every way +worthy. If I didn’t, as it seems proved that I +couldn’t, it will never be done now. However, I did +the next best thing, I equipped my cousin Graham Balfour with a +letter of introduction, and from him, if you know how—for +he is rather of the Scottish <a name="page312"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 312</span>character—you may elicit all +the information you can possibly wish to have as to us and +ours. Do not be bluffed off by the somewhat stern and +monumental first impression that he may make upon you. He +is one of the best fellows in the world, and the same sort of +fool that we are, only better-looking, with all the faults of +Vailimans and some of his own—I say nothing about +virtues.</p> +<p>I have lately been returning to my wallowing in the +mire. When I was a child, and indeed until I was nearly a +man, I consistently read Covenanting books. Now that I am a +grey-beard—or would be, if I could raise the beard—I +have returned, and for weeks back have read little else but +Wodrow, Walker, Shields, etc. Of course this is with an +idea of a novel, but in the course of it I made a very curious +discovery. I have been accustomed to hear refined and +intelligent critics—those who know so much better what we +are than we do ourselves,—trace down my literary descent +from all sorts of people, including Addison, of whom I could +never read a word. Well, laigh i’ your lug, +sir—the clue was found. My style is from the +Covenanting writers. Take a particular case—the +fondness for rhymes. I don’t know of any English +prose-writer who rhymes except by accident, and then a stone had +better be tied around his neck and himself cast into the +sea. But my Covenanting buckies rhyme all the time—a +beautiful example of the unconscious rhyme above referred to.</p> +<p>Do you know, and have you really tasted, these delightful +works? If not, it should be remedied; there is enough of +the Auld Licht in you to be ravished.</p> +<p>I suppose you know that success has so far attended my +banners—my political banners I mean, and not my +literary. In conjunction with the Three Great Powers I have +succeeded in getting rid of My President and My +Chief-Justice. They’ve gone home, the one to Germany, +the other to Souwegia. I hear little echoes of footfalls <a +name="page313"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 313</span>of their +departing footsteps through the medium of the newspapers. . . +.</p> +<p>Whereupon I make you my salute with the firm remark that it is +time to be done with trifling and give us a great book, and my +ladies fall into line with me to pay you a most respectful +courtesy, and we all join in the cry, ‘Come to +Vailima!’</p> +<p>My dear sir, your soul’s health is in it—you will +never do the great book, you will never cease to work in L., +etc., till you come to Vailima.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to R. Le Gallienne</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>December</i> 28<i>th</i>, 1893.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. LE GALLIENNE</span>,—I +have received some time ago, through our friend Miss Taylor, a +book of yours. But that was by no means my first +introduction to your name. The same book had stood already +on my shelves; I had read articles of yours in the +<i>Academy</i>; and by a piece of constructive criticism (which I +trust was sound) had arrived at the conclusion that you were +‘Log-roller.’ Since then I have seen your +beautiful verses to your wife. You are to conceive me, +then, as only too ready to make the acquaintance of a man who +loved good literature and could make it. I had to thank +you, besides, for a triumphant exposure of a paradox of my own: +the literary-prostitute disappeared from view at a phrase of +yours—‘The essence is not in the pleasure but the +sale.’ True: you are right, I was wrong; the author +is not the whore, but the libertine; and yet I shall let the +passage stand. It is an error, but it illustrated the truth +for which I was contending, that +literature—painting—all art, are no other than +pleasures, which we turn into trades.</p> +<p>And more than all this, I had, and I have to thank you for the +intimate loyalty you have shown to myself; for the eager welcome +you give to what is good—for the courtly tenderness with +which you touch on my defects. <a name="page314"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 314</span>I begin to grow old; I have given my +top note, I fancy;—and I have written too many books. +The world begins to be weary of the old booth; and if not weary, +familiar with the familiarity that breeds contempt. I do +not know that I am sensitive to criticism, if it be hostile; I am +sensitive indeed, when it is friendly; and when I read such +criticism as yours, I am emboldened to go on and praise God.</p> +<p>You are still young, and you may live to do much. The +little, artificial popularity of style in England tends, I think, +to die out; the British pig returns to his true love, the love of +the styleless, of the shapeless, of the slapdash and the +disorderly. There is trouble coming, I think; and you may +have to hold the fort for us in evil days.</p> +<p>Lastly, let me apologise for the crucifixion that I am +inflicting on you (<i>bien à contre-cœur</i>) by my +bad writing. I was once the best of writers; landladies, +puzzled as to my ‘trade,’ used to have their honest +bosoms set at rest by a sight of a page of +manuscript.—‘Ah,’ they would say, ‘no +wonder they pay you for that’;—and when I sent it in +to the printers, it was given to the boys! I was about +thirty-nine, I think, when I had a turn of scrivener’s +palsy; my hand got worse; and for the first time, I received +clean proofs. But it has gone beyond that now, I know I am +like my old friend James Payn, a terror to correspondents; and +you would not believe the care with which this has been +written.—Believe me to be, very sincerely yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. A. Baker</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>December</i> 1893.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MADAM</span>,—There is no +trouble, and I wish I could help instead. As it is, I fear +I am only going to put you <a name="page315"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 315</span>to trouble and vexation. This +Braille writing is a kind of consecration, and I would like if I +could to have your copy perfect. The two volumes are to be +published as Vols. <span class="GutSmall">I</span>. and <span +class="GutSmall">II</span>. of <i>The Adventures of David +Balfour</i>. 1st, <i>Kidnapped</i>; 2nd, +<i>Catriona</i>. I am just sending home a corrected +<i>Kidnapped</i> for this purpose to Messrs. Cassell, and in +order that I may if possible be in time, I send it to you first +of all. Please, as soon as you have noted the changes, +forward the same to Cassell and Co., La Belle Sauvage Yard, +Ludgate Hill.</p> +<p>I am writing to them by this mail to send you +<i>Catriona</i>.</p> +<p>You say, dear madam, you are good enough to say, it is +‘a keen pleasure’ to you to bring my book within the +reach of the blind.</p> +<p>Conceive then what it is to me! and believe me, sincerely +yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">I was a barren tree before,<br /> + I blew a quenchèd coal,<br /> +I could not, on their midnight shore,<br /> + The lonely blind console.</p> +<p class="poetry">A moment, lend your hand, I bring<br /> + My sheaf for you to bind,<br /> +And you can teach my words to sing<br /> + In the darkness of the blind.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Apia</i>, <i>December</i> +1893.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR HENRY JAMES</span>,—The +mail has come upon me like an armed man three days earlier than +was expected; and the Lord help me! It is impossible I +should answer anybody the way they should be. Your +jubilation over <i>Catriona</i> did me good, and still more the +subtlety and truth of your remark on the starving of the visual +sense <a name="page316"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 316</span>in +that book. ’Tis true, and unless I make the greater +effort—and am, as a step to that, convinced of its +necessity—it will be more true I fear in the future. +I <i>hear</i> people talking, and I <i>feel</i> them acting, and +that seems to me to be fiction. My two aims may be +described as—</p> +<p class="gutindent">1<i>st</i>. War to the adjective.</p> +<p class="gutindent">2<i>nd</i>. Death to the optic +nerve.</p> +<p>Admitted we live in an age of the optic nerve in +literature. For how many centuries did literature get along +without a sign of it? However, I’ll consider your +letter.</p> +<p>How exquisite is your character of the critic in <i>Essays in +London</i>! I doubt if you have done any single thing so +satisfying as a piece of style and of insight.—Yours +ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">1<i>st</i> <i>January</i> +’94.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—I am +delighted with your idea, and first, I will here give an amended +plan and afterwards give you a note of some of the +difficulties.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">[Plan of the Edinburgh +edition—14 vols.]</p> +<p>. . . It may be a question whether my <i>Times</i> letters +might not be appended to the ‘Footnote’ with a note +of the dates of discharge of Cedercrantz and Pilsach.</p> +<p>I am particularly pleased with this idea of yours, because I +am come to a dead stop. I never can remember how bad I have +been before, but at any rate I am bad enough just now, I mean as +to literature; in health I am well and <a +name="page317"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +317</span>strong. I take it I shall be six months before +I’m heard of again, and this time I could put in to some +advantage in revising the text and (if it were thought desirable) +writing prefaces. I do not know how many of them might be +thought desirable. I have written a paper on <i>Treasure +Island</i>, which is to appear shortly. <i>Master of +Ballantrae</i>—I have one drafted. <i>The Wrecker</i> +is quite sufficiently done already with the last chapter, but I +suppose an historic introduction to <i>David Balfour</i> is quite +unavoidable. <i>Prince Otto</i> I don’t think I could +say anything about, and <i>Black Arrow</i> don’t want +to. But it is probable I could say something to the volume +of <i>Travels</i>. In the verse business I can do just what +I like better than anything else, and extend <i>Underwoods</i> +with a lot of unpublished stuff. <i>Apropos</i>, if I were +to get printed off a very few poems which are somewhat too +intimate for the public, could you get them run up in some +luxuous manner, so that fools might be induced to buy them in +just a sufficient quantity to pay expenses and the thing remain +still in a manner private? We could supply photographs of +the illustrations—and the poems are of Vailima and the +family—I should much like to get this done as a surprise +for Fanny.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to H. B. Baildon</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>January</i> +15<i>th</i>, 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BAILDON</span>,—Last mail +brought your book and its Dedication. ‘Frederick +Street and the gardens, and the short-lived Jack o’ +Lantern,’ are again with me—and the note of the east +wind, and Froebel’s voice, and the smell of soup in +Thomson’s stair. Truly, you had no need to put +yourself under the protection of any other saint, were that saint +our Tamate himself! Yourself were enough, and yourself +coming with so rich a sheaf.</p> +<p>For what is this that you say about the Muses? They have +certainly never better inspired you than in ‘Jael and <a +name="page318"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +318</span>Sisera,’ and ‘Herodias and John the +Baptist,’ good stout poems, fiery and sound. +‘’Tis but a mask and behind it chuckles the God of +the Garden,’ I shall never forget. By the by, an +error of the press, page 49, line 4, ‘No infant’s +lesson are the ways of God.’ <i>The</i> is +dropped.</p> +<p>And this reminds me you have a bad habit which is to be +comminated in my theory of letters. Same page, two lines +lower: ‘But the vulture’s track’ is surely as +fine to the ear as ‘But vulture’s track,’ and +this latter version has a dreadful baldness. The reader +goes on with a sense of impoverishment, of unnecessary sacrifice; +he has been robbed by footpads, and goes scouting for his lost +article! Again, in the second Epode, these fine verses +would surely sound much finer if they began, ‘As a hardy +climber who has set his heart,’ than with the jejune +‘As hardy climber.’ I do not know why you +permit yourself this license with grammar; you show, in so many +pages, that you are superior to the paltry sense of rhythm which +usually dictates it—as though some poetaster had been +suffered to correct the poet’s text. By the way, I +confess to a heartfelt weakness for +<i>Auriculas</i>.—Believe me the very grateful and +characteristic pick-thank, but still sincere and +affectionate,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. H. Low</span>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>January</i> 15th, +1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LOW</span>,—. . . Pray +you, stoop your proud head, and sell yourself to some Jew +magazine, and make the visit out. I assure you, this is the +spot for a sculptor or painter. This, and no other—I +don’t say to stay there, but to come once and get the +living colour into them. I am used to it; I do not notice +it; rather prefer my grey, freezing recollections of Scotland; +but there it is, and every morning is a thing to give thanks for, +and every night another—bar when it rains, of course.</p> +<p>About <i>The Wrecker</i>—rather late days, and I still +suspect <a name="page319"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +319</span>I had somehow offended you; however, all’s well +that ends well, and I am glad I am forgiven—did you not +fail to appreciate the attitude of Dodd? He was a fizzle +and a stick, he knew it, he knew nothing else, and there is an +undercurrent of bitterness in him. And then the problem +that Pinkerton laid down: why the artist can <i>do nothing +else</i>? is one that continually exercises myself. He +cannot: granted. But Scott could. And +Montaigne. And Julius Cæsar. And many +more. And why can’t R. L. S.? Does it not amaze +you? It does me. I think of the Renaissance fellows, +and their all-round human sufficiency, and compare it with the +ineffable smallness of the field in which we labour and in which +we do so little. I think <i>David Balfour</i> a nice little +book, and very artistic, and just the thing to occupy the leisure +of a busy man; but for the top flower of a man’s life it +seems to me inadequate. Small is the word; it is a small +age, and I am of it. I could have wished to be otherwise +busy in this world. I ought to have been able to build +lighthouses and write <i>David Balfours</i> too. <i>Hinc +illae lacrymae</i>. I take my own case as most handy, but +it is as illustrative of my quarrel with the age. We take +all these pains, and we don’t do as well as Michael Angelo +or Leonardo, or even Fielding, who was an active magistrate, or +Richardson, who was a busy bookseller. <i>J’ai honte +pour nous</i>; my ears burn.</p> +<p>I am amazed at the effect which this Chicago exhibition has +produced upon you and others. It set Mrs. Fairchild +literally mad—to judge by her letters. And I wish I +had seen anything so influential. I suppose there was an +aura, a halo, some sort of effulgency about the place; for here I +find you louder than the rest. Well, it may be there is a +time coming; and I wonder, when it comes, whether it will be a +time of little, exclusive, one-eyed rascals like you and me, or +parties of the old stamp who can paint and fight, and write and +keep books of double entry, and sculp, and scalp. It might +be. You have a <a name="page320"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 320</span>lot of stuff in the kettle, and a +great deal of it Celtic. I have changed my mind +progressively about England, practically the whole of Scotland is +Celtic, and the western half of England, and all Ireland, and the +Celtic blood makes a rare blend for art. If it is stiffened +up with Latin blood, you get the French. We were less +lucky: we had only Scandinavians, themselves decidedly artistic, +and the Low-German lot. However, that is a good +starting-point, and with all the other elements in your crucible, +it may come to something great very easily. I wish you +would hurry up and let me see it. Here is a long while I +have been waiting for something <i>good</i> in art; and what have +I seen? Zola’s <i>Débâcle</i> and a few +of Kipling’s tales. Are you a reader of Barbey +d’Aurevilly? He is a never-failing source of pleasure +to me, for my sins, I suppose. What a work is the <i>Rideau +Cramoisi</i>! and <i>L’Ensorcelée</i>! and <i>Le +Chevalier Des Touches</i>!</p> +<p>This is degenerating into mere twaddle. So please +remember us all most kindly to Mrs. Low, and believe me ever +yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—Were all your privateers voiceless in the +war of 1812? Did <i>no one</i> of them write memoirs? +I shall have to do my privateer from chic, if you can’t +help me. <a name="citation320"></a><a href="#footnote320" +class="citation">[320]</a> My application to Scribner has +been quite in vain. See if you can get hold of some +historic sharp in the club, and tap him; they must some of them +have written memoirs or notes of some sort; perhaps still +unprinted; if that be so, get them copied for me.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to H. B. Baildon</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>January</i> +30<i>th</i>, 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR +BAILDON</span>,—‘Call not blessed.’—Yes, +if I could die just now, or say in half a year, I should have had +a <a name="page321"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +321</span>splendid time of it on the whole. But it gets a +little stale, and my work will begin to senesce; and parties to +shy bricks at me; and now it begins to look as if I should +survive to see myself impotent and forgotten. It’s a +pity suicide is not thought the ticket in the best circles.</p> +<p>But your letter goes on to congratulate me on having done the +one thing I am a little sorry for; a little—not +much—for my father himself lived to think that I had been +wiser than he. But the cream of the jest is that I have +lived to change my mind; and think that he was wiser than +I. Had I been an engineer, and literature my amusement, it +would have been better perhaps. I pulled it off, of course, +I won the wager, and it is pleasant while it lasts; but how long +will it last? I don’t know, say the Bells of Old +Bow.</p> +<p>All of which goes to show that nobody is quite sane in judging +himself. Truly, had I given way and gone in for +engineering, I should be dead by now. Well, the gods know +best.</p> +<p>. . . I hope you got my letter about the +<i>Rescue</i>.—Adieu,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p>True for you about the benefit: except by kisses, jests, song, +<i>et hoc genus omne</i>, man <i>cannot</i> convey benefit to +another. The universal benefactor has been there before +him.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to J. H. Bates</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>March</i> 25<i>th</i>, 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MR. JOE H. +BATES</span>,—I shall have the greatest pleasure in +acceding to your complimentary request. I shall think it an +honour to be associated with your <a name="page322"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 322</span>chapter, and I need not remind you +(for you have said it yourself) how much depends upon your own +exertions whether to make it to me a real honour or only a +derision. This is to let you know that I accept the +position that you have seriously offered to me in a quite serious +spirit. I need scarce tell you that I shall always be +pleased to receive reports of your proceedings; and if I do not +always acknowledge them, you are to remember that I am a man very +much occupied otherwise, and not at all to suppose that I have +lost interest in my chapter.</p> +<p>In this world, which (as you justly say) is so full of sorrow +and suffering, it will always please me to remember that my name +is connected with some efforts after alleviation, nor less so +with purposes of innocent recreation which, after all, are the +only certain means at our disposal for bettering human life.</p> +<p>With kind regards, to yourself, to Mr. L. C. Congdon, to E. M. +G. Bates, and to Mr. Edward Hugh Higlee Bates, and the heartiest +wishes for the future success of the chapter, believe me, yours +cordially,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to William Archer</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>March</i> 27<i>th</i>, 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR ARCHER</span>,—Many +thanks for your <i>Theatrical World</i>. Do you know, it +strikes me as being really very good? I have not yet read +much of it, but so far as I have looked, there is not a dull and +not an empty page in it. Hazlitt, whom you must often have +thought of, would have been pleased. Come to think of it, I +shall put this book upon the Hazlitt shelf. You have +acquired a manner that I can only call august; otherwise, I +should have to call it such amazing impudence. The +<i>Bauble Shop</i> and <i>Becket</i> are examples of what I +mean. But it ‘sets you weel.’</p> +<p><a name="page323"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +323</span>Marjorie Fleming I have known, as you surmise, for +long. She was possibly—no, I take back +possibly—she was one of the greatest works of God. +Your note about the resemblance of her verses to mine gave me +great joy, though it only proved me a plagiarist. By the +by, was it not over <i>The Child’s Garden of Verses</i> +that we first scraped acquaintance? I am sorry indeed to +hear that my esteemed correspondent Tomarcher has such poor taste +in literature. <a name="citation323"></a><a href="#footnote323" +class="citation">[323]</a> I fear he cannot have inherited +this trait from his dear papa. Indeed, I may say I know it, +for I remember the energy of papa’s disapproval when the +work passed through his hands on its way to a second birth, which +none regrets more than myself. It is an odd fact, or +perhaps a very natural one; I find few greater pleasures than +reading my own works, but I never, O I never read <i>The Black +Arrow</i>. In that country Tomarcher reigns supreme. +Well, and after all, if Tomarcher likes it, it has not been +written in vain.</p> +<p>We have just now a curious breath from Europe. A young +fellow just beginning letters, and no fool, turned up here with a +letter of introduction in the well-known blue ink and decorative +hieroglyphs of George Meredith. His name may be known to +you. It is Sidney Lysaght. He is staying with us but +a day or two, and it is strange to me and not unpleasant to hear +all the names, old and new, come up again. But oddly the +new are so much more in number. If I revisited the glimpses +of the moon on your side of the ocean, I should know +comparatively few of them.</p> +<p>My amanuensis deserts me—I should have said you, for +yours is the loss, my script having lost all bond with +humanity. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin: +that nobody can read my hand. It is a humiliating +circumstance that thus evens us with printers!</p> +<p>You must sometimes think it strange—or perhaps it is +only I that should so think it—to be following the old <a +name="page324"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 324</span>round, in +the gas lamps and the crowded theatres, when I am away here in +the tropical forest and the vast silences!</p> +<p>My dear Archer, my wife joins me in the best wishes to +yourself and Mrs. Archer, not forgetting Tom; and I am yours very +cordially,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to W. B. Yeats</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>April</i> 14, 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR SIR</span>,—Long since when +I was a boy I remember the emotions with which I repeated +Swinburne’s poems and ballads. Some ten years ago, a +similar spell was cast upon me by Meredith’s <i>Love in the +Valley</i>; the stanzas beginning ‘When her mother tends +her’ haunted me and made me drunk like wine; and I remember +waking with them all the echoes of the hills about +Hyères. It may interest you to hear that I have a +third time fallen in slavery: this is to your poem called the +<i>Lake Isle of Innisfrae</i>. It is so quaint and airy, +simple, artful, and eloquent to the heart—but I seek words +in vain. Enough that ‘always night and day I hear +lake water lapping with low sounds on the shore,’ and am, +yours gratefully,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to George Meredith</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>April</i> 17<i>th</i>, 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR MEREDITH</span>,—Many +good things have the gods sent to me of late. First of all +there was a letter from you by the kind hand of Mariette, if she +is not too great a lady to be remembered in such a style; and +then there came one Lysaght with a charming note of introduction +<a name="page325"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 325</span>in the +well-known hand itself. We had but a few days of him, and +liked him well. There was a sort of geniality and inward +fire about him at which I warmed my hands. It is long since +I have seen a young man who has left in me such a favourable +impression; and I find myself telling myself, ‘O, I must +tell this to Lysaght,’ or, ‘This will interest +him,’ in a manner very unusual after so brief an +acquaintance. The whole of my family shared in this +favourable impression, and my halls have re-echoed ever since, I +am sure he will be amused to know, with <i>Widdicombe +Fair</i>.</p> +<p>He will have told you doubtless more of my news than I could +tell you myself; he has your European perspective, a thing long +lost to me. I heard with a great deal of interest the news +of Box Hill. And so I understand it is to be +enclosed! Allow me to remark, that seems a far more +barbaric trait of manners than the most barbarous of ours. +We content ourselves with cutting off an occasional head.</p> +<p>I hear we may soon expect the <i>Amazing Marriage</i>. +You know how long, and with how much curiosity, I have looked +forward to the book. Now, in so far as you have adhered to +your intention, Gower Woodsere will be a family portrait, age +twenty-five, of the highly respectable and slightly influential +and fairly aged <i>Tusitala</i>. You have not known that +gentleman; console yourself, he is not worth knowing. At +the same time, my dear Meredith, he is very sincerely +yours—for what he is worth, for the memories of old times, +and in the expectation of many pleasures still to come. I +suppose we shall never see each other again; flitting youths of +the Lysaght species may occasionally cover these unconscionable +leagues and bear greetings to and fro. But we ourselves +must be content to converse on an occasional sheet of notepaper, +and I shall never see whether you have grown older, and you shall +never deplore that Gower Woodsere should have declined into the +pantaloon <i>Tusitala</i>. It is perhaps better <a +name="page326"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 326</span>so. +Let us continue to see each other as we were, and accept, my dear +Meredith, my love and respect.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—My wife joins me in the kindest messages to +yourself and Mariette.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Vailima</i>], <i>April</i> 17, +’94.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—<i>St. +Ives</i> is now well on its way into the second volume. +There remains no mortal doubt that it will reach the three volume +standard.</p> +<p>I am very anxious that you should send me—</p> +<p>1<i>st</i>. <i>Tom and Jerry</i>, a cheap edition.</p> +<p>2nd. The book by Ashton—the <i>Dawn of the +Century</i>, I think it was called—which Colvin sent me, +and which has miscarried, and</p> +<p>3rd. If it is possible, a file of the <i>Edinburgh +Courant</i> for the years 1811, 1812, 1813, or 1814. I +should not care for a whole year. If it were possible to +find me three months, winter months by preference, it would do my +business not only for <i>St. Ives</i>, but for the +<i>Justice-Clerk</i> as well. Suppose this to be +impossible, perhaps I could get the loan of it from somebody; or +perhaps it would be possible to have some one read a file for me +and make notes. This would be extremely bad, as unhappily +one man’s food is another man’s poison, and the +reader would probably leave out everything I should choose. +But if you are reduced to that, you might mention to the man who +is to read for me that balloon ascensions are in the order of the +day.</p> +<p>4th. It might be as well to get a book on balloon +ascension, particularly in the early part of the century.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">. . . . .</p> +<p>III. At last this book has come from Scribner, and, +alas! I have the first six or seven chapters of <i>St. +Ives</i> to recast entirely. Who could foresee that they +clothed the French prisoners in yellow? But that one fatal +fact—and <a name="page327"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +327</span>also that they shaved them twice a week—damns the +whole beginning. If it had been sent in time, it would have +saved me a deal of trouble. . . .</p> +<p>I have had a long letter from Dr. Scott Dalgleish, 25 Mayfield +Terrace, asking me to put my name down to the Ballantyne Memorial +Committee. I have sent him a pretty sharp answer in favour +of cutting down the memorial and giving more to the widow and +children. If there is to be any foolery in the way of +statues or other trash, please send them a guinea; but if they +are going to take my advice and put up a simple tablet with a few +heartfelt words, and really devote the bulk of the subscriptions +to the wife and family, I will go to the length of twenty pounds, +if you will allow me (and if the case of the family be at all +urgent), and at least I direct you to send ten pounds. I +suppose you had better see Scott Dalgleish himself on the +matter. I take the opportunity here to warn you that my +head is simply spinning with a multitude of affairs, and I shall +probably forget a half of my business at last.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Sitwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>April</i> +1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR FRIEND</span>,—I have at +last got some photographs, and hasten to send you, as you asked, +a portrait of Tusitala. He is a strange person; not so +lean, say experts, but infinitely battered; mighty active again +on the whole; going up and down our break-neck road at all hours +of the day and night on horseback; holding meetings with all +manner of chiefs; quite a political personage—God save the +mark!—in a small way, but at heart very conscious of the +inevitable flat failure that awaits every one. I shall +never do a better book than <i>Catriona</i>, that is my +high-water mark, and the trouble of production increases on me at +a great rate—and mighty anxious about how I am to leave my +family: an elderly <a name="page328"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +328</span>man, with elderly preoccupations, whom I should be +ashamed to show you for your old friend; but not a hope of my +dying soon and cleanly, and ‘winning off the +stage.’ Rather I am daily better in physical +health. I shall have to see this business out, after all; +and I think, in that case, they should have—they might +have—spared me all my ill-health this decade past, if it +were not to unbar the doors. I have no taste for old age, +and my nose is to be rubbed in it in spite of my face. I +was meant to die young, and the gods do not love me.</p> +<p>This is very like an epitaph, bar the handwriting, which is +anything but monumental, and I dare say I had better stop. +Fanny is down at her own cottage planting or deplanting or +replanting, I know not which, and she will not be home till +dinner, by which time the mail will be all closed, else she would +join me in all good messages and remembrances of love. I +hope you will congratulate Burne Jones from me on his +baronetcy. I cannot make out to be anything but raspingly, +harrowingly sad; so I will close, and not affect levity which I +cannot feel. Do not altogether forget me; keep a corner of +your memory for the exile</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Louis</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Vailima</i>, <i>May</i> +1894.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—My dear +fellow, I wish to assure you of the greatness of the pleasure +that this Edinburgh Edition gives me. I suppose it was your +idea to give it that name. No other would have affected me +in the same manner. Do you remember, how many years +ago—I would be afraid to hazard a guess—one night +when I communicated to you certain intimations of early death and +aspirations after fame? I was particularly maudlin; and my +remorse the next morning on a review of my folly has written the +matter very deeply in my mind; from yours it may easily have +fled. If any one at that moment <a name="page329"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 329</span>could have shown me the Edinburgh +Edition, I suppose I should have died. It is with gratitude +and wonder that I consider ‘the way in which I have been +led.’ Could a more preposterous idea have occurred to +us in those days when we used to search our pockets for coppers, +too often in vain, and combine forces to produce the threepence +necessary for two glasses of beer, or wander down the Lothian +Road without any, than that I should be strong and well at the +age of forty-three in the island of Upolu, and that you should be +at home bringing out the Edinburgh Edition? If it had been +possible, I should almost have preferred the Lothian Road +Edition, say, with a picture of the old Dutch smuggler on the +covers. I have now something heavy on my mind. I had +always a great sense of kinship with poor Robert +Fergusson—so clever a boy, so wild, of such a mixed strain, +so unfortunate, born in the same town with me, and, as I always +felt, rather by express intimation than from evidence, so like +myself. Now the injustice with which the one Robert is +rewarded and the other left out in the cold sits heavy on me, and +I wish you could think of some way in which I could do honour to +my unfortunate namesake. Do you think it would look like +affectation to dedicate the whole edition to his memory? I +think it would. The sentiment which would dictate it to me +is too abstruse; and besides, I think my wife is the proper +person to receive the dedication of my life’s work. +At the same time, it is very odd—it really looks like the +transmigration of souls—I feel that I must do something for +Fergusson; Burns has been before me with the gravestone. It +occurs to me you might take a walk down the Canongate and see in +what condition the stone is. If it be at all uncared for, +we might repair it, and perhaps add a few words of +inscription.</p> +<p>I must tell you, what I just remembered in a flash as I was +walking about dictating this letter—there was in the +original plan of the <i>Master of Ballantrae</i> a sort of +introduction <a name="page330"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +330</span>describing my arrival in Edinburgh on a visit to +yourself and your placing in my hands the papers of the +story. I actually wrote it, and then condemned the +idea—as being a little too like Scott, I suppose. Now +I must really find the <span class="GutSmall">MS</span>. and try +to finish it for the E. E. It will give you, what I should +so much like you to have, another corner of your own in that +lofty monument.</p> +<p>Suppose we do what I have proposed about Fergusson’s +monument, I wonder if an inscription like this would look +arrogant—</p> +<p class="gutindent">This stone originally erected<br /> +by Robert Burns has been<br /> +repaired at the<br /> +charges of Robert Louis Stevenson,<br /> +and is by him re-dedicated to<br /> +the memory of Robert Fergusson,<br /> +as the gift of one Edinburgh<br /> +lad to another.</p> +<p>In spacing this inscription I would detach the names of +Fergusson and Burns, but leave mine in the text.</p> +<p>Or would that look like sham modesty, and is it better to +bring out the three Roberts?</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to R. A. M. Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>June</i> +1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BOB</span>,—I must make +out a letter this mail or perish in the attempt. All the +same, I am deeply stupid, in bed with a cold, deprived of my +amanuensis, and conscious of the wish but not the furnished +will. You may be interested to hear how the family +inquiries go. It is now quite certain that we are a +second-rate lot, and came out of Cunningham or Clydesdale, +therefore <i>British</i> folk; so that you are Cymry on both +sides, and I Cymry and Pict. We may have fought with King +Arthur and known Merlin. The first of the family, Stevenson +of Stevenson, <a name="page331"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +331</span>was quite a great party, and dates back to the wars of +Edward First. The last male heir of Stevenson of Stevenson +died 1670, £220, 10s. to the bad, from drink. About +the same time the Stevensons, who were mostly in Cunningham +before, crop up suddenly in the parish of Neilston, over the +border in Renfrewshire. Of course, they may have been there +before, but there is no word of them in that parish till 1675 in +any extracts I have. Our first traceable ancestor was a +tenant farmer of Muir of Cauldwells—James in +Nether-Carsewell. Presently two families of maltmen are +found in Glasgow, both, by re-duplicated proofs, related to James +(the son of James) in Nether Carsewell. We descend by his +second marriage from Robert; one of these died 1733. It is +not very romantic up to now, but has interested me surprisingly +to fish out, always hoping for more—and occasionally +getting at least a little clearness and confirmation. But +the earliest date, 1655, apparently the marriage of James in +Nether Carsewell, cannot as yet be pushed back. From which +of any number of dozen little families in Cunningham we should +derive, God knows! Of course, it doesn’t matter a +hundred years hence, an argument fatal to all human enterprise, +industry, or pleasure. And to me it will be a deadly +disappointment if I cannot roll this stone away! One +generation further might be nothing, but it is my present object +of desire, and we are so near it! There is a man in the +same parish called Constantine; if I could only trace to him, I +could take you far afield by that one talisman of the strange +Christian name of Constantine. But no such luck! And +I kind of fear we shall stick at James.</p> +<p>So much, though all inchoate, I trouble you with, knowing that +you, at least, must take an interest in it. So much is +certain of that strange Celtic descent, that the past has an +interest for it apparently gratuitous, but fiercely strong. +I wish to trace my ancestors a thousand years, if I trace them by +gallowses. It is not love, not <a name="page332"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 332</span>pride, not admiration; it is an +expansion of the identity, intimately pleasing, and wholly +uncritical; I can expend myself in the person of an inglorious +ancestor with perfect comfort; or a disgraced, if I could find +one. I suppose, perhaps, it is more to me who am childless, +and refrain with a certain shock from looking forwards. +But, I am sure, in the solid grounds of race, that you have it +also in some degree. <a name="citation332"></a><a +href="#footnote332" class="citation">[332]</a></p> +<p class="gutindent">I. <span class="smcap">James</span>, a +tenant of the Muirs, in Nether-Carsewell, Neilston, married +(1665?) Jean Keir.</p> +<p class="gutindent">II. <span class="smcap">Robert</span> +(Maltman in Glasgow), died 1733, married 1st; married second, +Elizabeth Cumming.</p> +<p class="gutindent">[Of <span class="smcap">Robert</span> and +1st marriage: William (Maltman in Glasgow), of him: <span +class="smcap">Robert</span>, <span class="smcap">Marion</span> +and <span class="smcap">Elizabeth</span>]</p> +<p class="gutindent">III. <span class="smcap">Robert</span> [of +Robert and Elizabeth Cumming] (Maltman in Glasgow), married +Margaret Fulton (had a large family).</p> +<p class="gutindent">IV. <span class="smcap">Alan</span>, West +India merchant, married Jean Lillie.</p> +<p class="gutindent">V. <span class="smcap">Robert</span>, +married Jean Smith.</p> +<p class="gutindent">VI. <span +class="smcap">Alan</span>.—Margaret Jones.</p> +<p class="gutindent">VII. R. A. M. S.</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span +class="smcap">Note</span>.—Between 1730–1766 +flourished in Glasgow Alan the Coppersmith, who acts as a kind of +a pin to the whole Stevenson system there. He was caution +to Robert the Second’s will, and to William’s will, +and to the will of a John, another maltman.</p> +<p>Enough genealogy. I do not know if you will be able to +read my hand. Unhappily, Belle, who is my amanuensis, is +out of the way on other affairs, and I have to make the unwelcome +effort. (O this is beautiful, I am quite pleased with +myself.) Graham has just arrived last night (my mother is +coming by the other steamer in three days), and has told me of +your meeting, and he said you looked a little older than I did; +so that I suppose we keep step fairly on the downward side of the +hill. He thought you looked harassed, and I could imagine +that too. I sometimes <a name="page333"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 333</span>feel harassed. I have a great +family here about me, a great anxiety. The loss (to use my +grandfather’s expression), the ‘loss’ of our +family is that we are disbelievers in the morrow—perhaps I +should say, rather, in next year. The future is +<i>always</i> black to us; it was to Robert Stevenson; to Thomas; +I suspect to Alan; to R. A. M. S. it was so almost to his ruin in +youth; to R. L. S., who had a hard hopeful strain in him from his +mother, it was not so much so once, but becomes daily more +so. Daily so much more so, that I have a painful difficulty +in believing I can ever finish another book, or that the public +will ever read it.</p> +<p>I have so huge a desire to know exactly what you are doing, +that I suppose I should tell you what I am doing by way of an +example. I have a room now, a part of the twelve-foot +verandah sparred in, at the most inaccessible end of the +house. Daily I see the sunrise out of my bed, which I still +value as a tonic, a perpetual tuning fork, a look of God’s +face once in the day. At six my breakfast comes up to me +here, and I work till eleven. If I am quite well, I +sometimes go out and bathe in the river before lunch, +twelve. In the afternoon I generally work again, now alone +drafting, now with Belle dictating. Dinner is at six, and I +am often in bed by eight. This is supposing me to stay at +home. But I must often be away, sometimes all day long, +sometimes till twelve, one, or two at night, when you might see +me coming home to the sleeping house, sometimes in a trackless +darkness, sometimes with a glorious tropic moon, everything +drenched with dew—unsaddling and creeping to bed; and you +would no longer be surprised that I live out in this country, and +not in Bournemouth—in bed.</p> +<p>My great recent interruptions have (as you know) come from +politics; not much in my line, you will say. But it is +impossible to live here and not feel very sorely the consequences +of the horrid white mismanagement. I tried standing by and +looking on, and it became too much for <a +name="page334"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 334</span>me. +They are such illogical fools; a logical fool in an office, with +a lot of red tape, is conceivable. Furthermore, he is as +much as we have any reason to expect of officials—a +thoroughly common-place, unintellectual lot. But these +people are wholly on wires; laying their ears down, skimming +away, pausing as though shot, and presto! full spread on the +other tack. I observe in the official class mostly an +insane jealousy of the smallest kind, as compared to which the +artist’s is of a grave, modest character—the +actor’s, even; a desire to extend his little authority, and +to relish it like a glass of wine, that is +<i>impayable</i>. Sometimes, when I see one of these little +kings strutting over one of his victories—wholly illegal, +perhaps, and certain to be reversed to his shame if his superiors +ever heard of it—I could weep. The strange thing is +that they <i>have nothing else</i>. I auscultate them in +vain; no real sense of duty, no real comprehension, no real +attempt to comprehend, no wish for information—you cannot +offend one of them more bitterly than by offering information, +though it is certain that you have <i>more</i>, and obvious that +you have <i>other</i>, information than they have; and talking of +policy, they could not play a better stroke than by listening to +you, and it need by no means influence their action. +<i>Tenez</i>, you know what a French post office or railway +official is? That is the diplomatic card to the life. +Dickens is not in it; caricature fails.</p> +<p>All this keeps me from my work, and gives me the unpleasant +side of the world. When your letters are disbelieved it +makes you angry, and that is rot; and I wish I could keep out of +it with all my soul. But I have just got into it again, and +farewell peace!</p> +<p>My work goes along but slowly. I have got to a crossing +place, I suppose; the present book, <i>Saint Ives</i>, is +nothing; it is in no style in particular, a tissue of adventures, +the central character not very well done, no philosophic pith +under the yarn; and, in short, if people will read it, +that’s all I ask; and if they won’t, damn them! +I like <a name="page335"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +335</span>doing it though; and if you ask me why!—after +that I am on <i>Weir of Hermiston</i> and <i>Heathercat</i>, two +Scotch stories, which will either be something different, or I +shall have failed. The first is generally designed, and is +a private story of two or three characters in a very grim +vein. The second—alas! the thought—is an +attempt at a real historical novel, to present a whole field of +time; the race—our own race—the west land and +Clydesdale blue bonnets, under the influence of their last trial, +when they got to a pitch of organisation in madness that no other +peasantry has ever made an offer at. I was going to call it +<i>The Killing Time</i>, but this man Crockett has forestalled me +in that. Well, it’ll be a big smash if I fail in it; +but a gallant attempt. All my weary reading as a boy, which +you remember well enough, will come to bear on it; and if my mind +will keep up to the point it was in a while back, perhaps I can +pull it through.</p> +<p>For two months past, Fanny, Belle, Austin (her child), and I +have been alone; but yesterday, as I mentioned, Graham Balfour +arrived, and on Wednesday my mother and Lloyd will make up the +party to its full strength. I wish you could drop in for a +month or a week, or two hours. That is my chief want. +On the whole, it is an unexpectedly pleasant corner I have +dropped into for an end of it, which I could scarcely have +foreseen from Wilson’s shop, or the Princes Street Gardens, +or the Portobello Road. Still, I would like to hear what my +<i>alter ego</i> thought of it; and I would sometimes like to +have my old <i>maître ès arts</i> express an opinion +on what I do. I put this very tamely, being on the whole a +quiet elderly man; but it is a strong passion with me, though +intermittent. Now, try to follow my example and tell me +something about yourself, Louisa, the Bab, and your work; and +kindly send me some specimens of what you’re about. I +have only seen one thing by you, about Notre Dame in the +<i>Westminster</i> or <i>St. James’s</i>, since I left +England, now I suppose six years ago.</p> +<p><a name="page336"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 336</span>I +have looked this trash over, and it is not at all the letter I +wanted to write—not truck about officials, ancestors, and +the like rancidness—but you have to let your pen go in its +own broken-down gait, like an old butcher’s pony, stop when +it pleases, and go on again as it will.—Ever, my dear Bob, +your affectionate cousin,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Henry James</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>July</i> +7<i>th</i>, 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR HENRY JAMES</span>,—I am +going to try and dictate to you a letter or a note, and begin the +same without any spark of hope, my mind being entirely in +abeyance. This malady is very bitter on the literary +man. I have had it now coming on for a month, and it seems +to get worse instead of better. If it should prove to be +softening of the brain, a melancholy interest will attach to the +present document. I heard a great deal about you from my +mother and Graham Balfour; the latter declares that you could +take a First in any Samoan subject. If that be so, I should +like to hear you on the theory of the constitution. Also to +consult you on the force of the particles <i>o lo ’o</i> +and <i>ua</i>, which are the subject of a dispute among local +pundits. You might, if you ever answer this, give me your +opinion on the origin of the Samoan race, just to complete the +favour.</p> +<p>They both say that you are looking well, and I suppose I may +conclude from that that you are feeling passably. I wish I +was. Do not suppose from this that I am ill in body; it is +the numskull that I complain of. And when that is wrong, as +you must be very keenly aware, you begin every day with a +smarting disappointment, which is not good for the temper. +I am in one of the humours when a man wonders how any one can be +such an ass as to embrace the profession of letters, and not get +apprenticed <a name="page337"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +337</span>to a barber or keep a baked-potato stall. But I +have no doubt in the course of a week, or perhaps to-morrow, +things will look better.</p> +<p>We have at present in port the model warship of Great +Britain. She is called the <i>Curaçoa</i>, and has +the nicest set of officers and men conceivable. They, the +officers, are all very intimate with us, and the front verandah +is known as the Curaçoa Club, and the road up to Vailima +is known as the Curaçoa Track. It was rather a +surprise to me; many naval officers have I known, and somehow had +not learned to think entirely well of them, and perhaps sometimes +ask myself a little uneasily how that kind of men could do great +actions? and behold! the answer comes to me, and I see a ship +that I would guarantee to go anywhere it was possible for men to +go, and accomplish anything it was permitted man to +attempt. I had a cruise on board of her not long ago to +Manu’a, and was delighted. The goodwill of all on +board; the grim playfulness of — <a +name="citation337"></a><a href="#footnote337" +class="citation">[337]</a> quarters, with the wounded falling +down at the word; the ambulances hastening up and carrying them +away; the Captain suddenly crying, ‘Fire in the +ward-room!’ and the squad hastening forward with the hose; +and, last and most curious spectacle of all, all the men in their +dust-coloured fatigue clothes, at a note of the bugle, falling +simultaneously flat on deck, and the ship proceeding with its +prostrate crew—<i>quasi</i> to ram an enemy; our dinner at +night in a wild open anchorage, the ship rolling almost to her +gunwales, and showing us alternately her bulwarks up in the sky, +and then the wild broken cliffy palm-crested shores of the island +with the surf thundering and leaping close aboard. We had +the ward-room mess on deck, lit by pink wax tapers, everybody, of +course, in uniform but myself, and the first lieutenant (who is a +rheumaticky body) wrapped in a boat cloak. Gradually the +sunset faded out, the island disappeared from the eye, though it +remained menacingly present to the ear with <a +name="page338"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 338</span>the voice +of the surf; and then the captain turned on the searchlight and +gave us the coast, the beach, the trees, the native houses, and +the cliffs by glimpses of daylight, a kind of deliberate +lightning. About which time, I suppose, we must have come +as far as the dessert, and were probably drinking our first glass +of port to Her Majesty. We stayed two days at the island, +and had, in addition, a very picturesque snapshot at the native +life. The three islands of Manu’a are independent, +and are ruled over by a little slip of a half-caste girl about +twenty, who sits all day in a pink gown, in a little white +European house with about a quarter of an acre of roses in front +of it, looking at the palm-trees on the village street, and +listening to the surf. This, so far as I could discover, +was all she had to do. ‘This is a very dull +place,’ she said. It appears she could go to no other +village for fear of raising the jealousy of her own people in the +capital. And as for going about ‘tafatafaoing,’ +as we say here, its cost was too enormous. A strong +able-bodied native must walk in front of her and blow the conch +shell continuously from the moment she leaves one house until the +moment she enters another. Did you ever blow the conch +shell? I presume not; but the sweat literally hailed off +that man, and I expected every moment to see him burst a +blood-vessel. We were entertained to kava in the +guest-house with some very original features. The young men +who run for the <i>kava</i> have a right to misconduct themselves +<i>ad libitum</i> on the way back; and though they were told to +restrain themselves on the occasion of our visit, there was a +strange hurly-burly at their return, when they came beating the +trees and the posts of the houses, leaping, shouting, and yelling +like Bacchants.</p> +<p>I tasted on that occasion what it is to be great. My +name was called next after the captain’s, and several +chiefs (a thing quite new to me, and not at all Samoan practice) +drank to me by name.</p> +<p>And now, if you are not sick of the <i>Curaçoa</i> and +Manu’a, <a name="page339"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +339</span>I am, at least on paper. And I decline any longer +to give you examples of how not to write.</p> +<p>By the by, you sent me long ago a work by Anatole France, +which I confess I did not <i>taste</i>. Since then I have +made the acquaintance of the <i>Abbé Coignard</i>, and +have become a faithful adorer. I don’t think a better +book was ever written.</p> +<p>And I have no idea what I have said, and I have no idea what I +ought to have said, and I am a total ass, but my heart is in the +right place, and I am, my dear Henry James, yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mr. Marcel Schwob</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Upolu</i>, +<i>Samoa</i>, <i>July</i> 7, 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MR. MARCEL +SCHWOB</span>,—Thank you for having remembered me in my +exile. I have read <i>Mimes</i> twice as a whole; and now, +as I write, I am reading it again as it were by accident, and a +piece at a time, my eye catching a word and travelling obediently +on through the whole number. It is a graceful book, +essentially graceful, with its haunting agreeable melancholy, its +pleasing savour of antiquity. At the same time, by its +merits, it shows itself rather as the promise of something else +to come than a thing final in itself. You have yet to give +us—and I am expecting it with impatience—something of +a larger gait; something daylit, not twilit; something with the +colours of life, not the flat tints of a temple illumination; +something that shall be <i>said</i> with all the clearnesses and +the trivialities of speech, not <i>sung</i> like a +semi-articulate lullaby. It will not please yourself as +well, when you come to give it us, but it will please others +better. It will be more of a whole, more worldly, more +nourished, more commonplace—and not so pretty, perhaps not +even so beautiful. No man knows better than I that, as we +go on in life, we must part from prettiness and the graces. +We but attain qualities to lose them; life is a series of <a +name="page340"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 340</span>farewells, +even in art; even our proficiencies are deciduous and +evanescent. So here with these exquisite pieces the <span +class="GutSmall">XVII</span>th, <span +class="GutSmall">XVIII</span>th, and <span +class="GutSmall">IV</span>th of the present collection. You +will perhaps never excel them; I should think the +‘Hermes,’ never. Well, you will do something +else, and of that I am in expectation.—Yours cordially,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to A. St. Gaudens</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>July</i> 8, 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR ST. GAUDENS</span>,—This +is to tell you that the medallion has been at last triumphantly +transported up the hill and placed over my smoking-room +mantelpiece. It is considered by everybody a first-rate but +flattering portrait. We have it in a very good light, which +brings out the artistic merits of the god-like sculptor to great +advantage. As for my own opinion, I believe it to be a +speaking likeness, and not flattered at all; possibly a little +the reverse. The verses (curse the rhyme) look remarkably +well.</p> +<p>Please do not longer delay, but send me an account for the +expense of the gilt letters. I was sorry indeed that they +proved beyond the means of a small farmer.—Yours very +sincerely,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Miss Adelaide Boodle</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>July</i> 14, +1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR ADELAIDE</span>,—. . . +So, at last, you are going into mission work? where I think your +heart always was. You will like it in a way, but remember +it is dreary long. Do you know the story of the American +tramp who was offered meals and a day’s wage to chop with +the back of an axe on a fallen trunk. ‘Damned if I +can go on chopping when I can’t see the chips +fly!’ You will never see the chips fly in mission +work, never; and be sure you know it beforehand. The work +is one long dull disappointment, <a name="page341"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 341</span>varied by acute revulsions; and +those who are by nature courageous and cheerful and have grown +old in experience, learn to rub their hands over infinitesimal +successes. However, as I really believe there is some good +done in the long run—<i>gutta cavat lapidem non vi</i> in +this business—it is a useful and honourable career in which +no one should be ashamed to embark. Always remember the +fable of the sun, the storm, and the traveller’s +cloak. Forget wholly and for ever all small pruderies, and +remember that <i>you cannot change ancestral feelings of right +and wrong without what is practically soul-murder</i>. +Barbarous as the customs may seem, always hear them with +patience, always judge them with gentleness, always find in them +some seed of good; see that you always develop them; remember +that all you can do is to civilise the man in the line of his own +civilisation, such as it is. And never expect, never +believe in, thaumaturgic conversions. They may do very well +for St. Paul; in the case of an Andaman islander they mean less +than nothing. In fact, what you have to do is to teach the +parents in the interests of their great-grandchildren.</p> +<p>Now, my dear Adelaide, dismiss from your mind the least idea +of fault upon your side; nothing is further from the fact. +I cannot forgive you, for I do not know your fault. My own +is plain enough, and the name of it is cold-hearted neglect; and +you may busy yourself more usefully in trying to forgive +me. But ugly as my fault is, you must not suppose it to +mean more than it does; it does not mean that we have at all +forgotten you, that we have become at all indifferent to the +thought of you. See, in my life of Jenkin, a remark of his, +very well expressed, on the friendships of men who do not write +to each other. I can honestly say that I have not changed +to you in any way; though I have behaved thus ill, thus +cruelly. Evil is done by want of—well, principally by +want of industry. You can imagine what I would say (in a +novel) of any one who had behaved as <a name="page342"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 342</span>I have done. <i>Deteriora +sequor</i>. And you must somehow manage to forgive your old +friend; and if you will be so very good, continue to give us news +of you, and let us share the knowledge of your adventures, sure +that it will be always followed with interest—even if it is +answered with the silence of ingratitude. For I am not a +fool; I know my faults, I know they are ineluctable, I know they +are growing on me. I know I may offend again, and I warn +you of it. But the next time I offend, tell me so plainly +and frankly like a lady, and don’t lacerate my heart and +bludgeon my vanity with imaginary faults of your own and purely +gratuitous penitence. I might suspect you of irony!</p> +<p>We are all fairly well, though I have been off work and +off—as you know very well—letter-writing. Yet I +have sometimes more than twenty letters, and sometimes more than +thirty, going out each mail. And Fanny has had a most +distressing bronchitis for some time, which she is only now +beginning to get over. I have just been to see her; she is +lying—though she had breakfast an hour ago, about +seven—in her big cool, mosquito-proof room, ingloriously +asleep. As for me, you see that a doom has come upon me: I +cannot make marks with a pen—witness +‘ingloriously’ above; and my amanuensis not appearing +so early in the day, for she is then immersed in household +affairs, and I can hear her ‘steering the boys’ up +and down the verandahs—you must decipher this unhappy +letter for yourself and, I fully admit, with everything against +you. A letter should be always well written; how much more +a letter of apology! Legibility is the politeness of men of +letters, as punctuality of kings and beggars. By the +punctuality of my replies, and the beauty of my hand-writing, +judge what a fine conscience I must have!</p> +<p>Now, my dear gamekeeper, I must really draw to a close. +For I have much else to write before the mail goes out three days +hence. Fanny being asleep, it would not be conscientious to +invent a message from her, so you <a name="page343"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 343</span>must just imagine her +sentiments. I find I have not the heart to speak of your +recent loss. You remember perhaps, when my father died, you +told me those ugly images of sickness, decline, and impaired +reason, which then haunted me day and night, would pass away and +be succeeded by things more happily characteristic. I have +found it so. He now haunts me, strangely enough, in two +guises; as a man of fifty, lying on a hillside and carving +mottoes on a stick, strong and well; and as a younger man, +running down the sands into the sea near North Berwick, +myself—<i>ætat</i>. 11—somewhat horrified at +finding him so beautiful when stripped! I hand on your own +advice to you in case you have forgotten it, as I know one is apt +to do in seasons of bereavement.—Ever yours, with much love +and sympathy,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Mrs. Baker</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>July</i> 16, 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MRS. BAKER</span>,—I am very +much obliged to you for your letter and the enclosure from Mr. +Skinner. Mr. Skinner says he ‘thinks Mr. Stevenson +must be a very kind man’; he little knows me. But I +am very sure of one thing, that you are a very kind woman. +I envy you—my amanuensis being called away, I continue in +my own hand, or what is left of it—unusually legible, I am +thankful to see—I envy you your beautiful choice of an +employment. There must be no regrets at least for a day so +spent; and when the night falls you need ask no blessing on your +work.</p> +<p>‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of +these.’—Yours truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to J. M. Barrie</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><a name="page344"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 344</span><i>Vailima</i>, <i>July</i> 13, +1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR BARRIE</span>,—This is +the last effort of an ulcerated conscience. I have been so +long owing you a letter, I have heard so much of you, fresh from +the press, from my mother and Graham Balfour, that I have to +write a letter no later than to-day, or perish in my shame. +But the deuce of it is, my dear fellow, that you write such a +very good letter that I am ashamed to exhibit myself before my +junior (which you are, after all) in the light of the dreary +idiot I feel. Understand that there will be nothing funny +in the following pages. If I can manage to be rationally +coherent, I shall be more than satisfied.</p> +<p>In the first place, I have had the extreme satisfaction to be +shown that photograph of your mother. It bears evident +traces of the hand of an amateur. How is it that amateurs +invariably take better photographs than professionals? I +must qualify invariably. My own negatives have always +represented a province of chaos and old night in which you might +dimly perceive fleecy spots of twilight, representing nothing; so +that, if I am right in supposing the portrait of your mother to +be yours, I must salute you as my superior. Is that your +mother’s breakfast? Or is it only afternoon +tea? If the first, do let me recommend to Mrs. Barrie to +add an egg to her ordinary. Which, if you please, I will +ask her to eat to the honour of her son, and I am sure she will +live much longer for it, to enjoy his fresh successes. I +never in my life saw anything more deliciously +characteristic. I declare I can hear her speak. I +wonder my mother could resist the temptation of your proposed +visit to Kirriemuir, which it was like your kindness to +propose. By the way, I was twice in Kirriemuir, I believe +in the year ’71, when I was going on a visit to +Glenogil. It was Kirriemuir, was it not? I have a +distinct recollection of an inn at the end—I think the +upper end—of an irregular open place or square, in which I +<a name="page345"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 345</span>always +see your characters evolve. But, indeed, I did not pay much +attention; being all bent upon my visit to a shooting-box, where +I should fish a real trout-stream, and I believe preserved. +I did, too, and it was a charming stream, clear as crystal, +without a trace of peat—a strange thing in +Scotland—and alive with trout; the name of it I cannot +remember, it was something like the Queen’s River, and in +some hazy way connected with memories of Mary Queen of +Scots. It formed an epoch in my life, being the end of all +my trout-fishing. I had always been accustomed to pause and +very laboriously to kill every fish as I took it. But in +the Queen’s River I took so good a basket that I forgot +these niceties; and when I sat down, in a hard rain shower, under +a bank, to take my sandwiches and sherry, lo! and behold, there +was the basketful of trouts still kicking in their agony. I +had a very unpleasant conversation with my conscience. All +that afternoon I persevered in fishing, brought home my basket in +triumph, and sometime that night, ‘in the wee sma’ +hours ayont the twal,’ I finally forswore the gentle craft +of fishing. I dare say your local knowledge may identify +this historic river; I wish it could go farther and identify also +that particular Free kirk in which I sat and groaned on +Sunday. While my hand is in I must tell you a story. +At that antique epoch you must not fall into the vulgar error +that I was myself ancient. I was, on the contrary, very +young, very green, and (what you will appreciate, Mr. Barrie) +very shy. There came one day to lunch at the house two very +formidable old ladies—or one very formidable, and the other +what you please—answering to the honoured and historic name +of the Miss C— A—’s of Balnamoon. At +table I was exceedingly funny, and entertained the company with +tales of geese and bubbly-jocks. I was great in the +expression of my terror for these bipeds, and suddenly this +horrid, severe, and eminently matronly old lady put up a pair of +gold eye-glasses, looked at me awhile in silence, and pronounced +in a clangorous voice <a name="page346"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 346</span>her verdict. ‘You give +me very much the effect of a coward, Mr. Stevenson!’ +I had very nearly left two vices behind me at +Glenogil—fishing and jesting at table. And of one +thing you may be very sure, my lips were no more opened at that +meal.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>July</i> 29<i>th</i></p> +<p>No, Barrie, ’tis in vain they try to alarm me with their +bulletins. No doubt, you’re ill, and unco ill, I +believe; but I have been so often in the same case that I know +pleurisy and pneumonia are in vain against Scotsmen who can +write, (I once could.) You cannot imagine probably how near +me this common calamity brings you. <i>Ce que j’ai +toussé dans ma vie</i>! How often and how long have +I been on the rack at night and learned to appreciate that noble +passage in the Psalms when somebody or other is said to be more +set on something than they ‘who dig for hid +treasures—yea, than those who long for the +morning’—for all the world, as you have been racked +and you have longed. Keep your heart up, and you’ll +do. Tell that to your mother, if you are still in any +danger or suffering. And by the way, if you are at all like +me—and I tell myself you are very like me—be sure +there is only one thing good for you, and that is the sea in hot +climates. Mount, sir, into ‘a little frigot’ of +5000 tons or so, and steer peremptorily for the tropics; and what +if the ancient mariner, who guides your frigot, should startle +the silence of the ocean with the cry of land ho!—say, when +the day is dawning—and you should see the turquoise +mountain tops of Upolu coming hand over fist above the +horizon? Mr. Barrie, sir, ’tis then there would be +larks! And though I cannot be certain that our climate +would suit you (for it does not suit some), I am sure as death +the voyage would do you good—would do you +<i>Best</i>—and if Samoa didn’t do, you needn’t +stay beyond the month, and I should have had another pleasure in +my life, which is a serious consideration for me. I take +this as the hand of the Lord preparing your way to +Vailima—in the desert, certainly—in the desert of +Cough and by <a name="page347"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +347</span>the ghoul-haunted woodland of Fever—but whither +that way points there can be no question—and there will be +a meeting of the twa Hoasting Scots Makers in spite of fate, +fortune, and the Devil. <i>Absit omen</i>!</p> +<p>My dear Barrie, I am a little in the dark about this new work +of yours <a name="citation347"></a><a href="#footnote347" +class="citation">[347]</a>: what is to become of me +afterwards? You say carefully—methought +anxiously—that I was no longer me when I grew up? I +cannot bear this suspense: what is it? It’s no +forgery? And <span class="GutSmall">AM I +HANGIT</span>? These are the elements of a very pretty +lawsuit which you had better come to Samoa to compromise. I +am enjoying a great pleasure that I had long looked forward to, +reading Orme’s <i>History of Indostan</i>; I had been +looking out for it everywhere; but at last, in four volumes, +large quarto, beautiful type and page, and with a delectable set +of maps and plans, and all the names of the places wrongly +spelled—it came to Samoa, little Barrie. I tell you +frankly, you had better come soon. I am sair failed +a’ready; and what I may be if you continue to dally, I +dread to conceive. I may be speechless; already, or at +least for a month or so, I’m little better than a +teetoller—I beg pardon, a teetotaller. It is not +exactly physical, for I am in good health, working four or five +hours a day in my plantation, and intending to ride a paper-chase +next Sunday—ay, man, that’s a fact, and I havena had +the hert to breathe it to my mother yet—the +obligation’s poleetical, for I am trying every means to +live well with my German neighbours—and, O Barrie, but +it’s no easy! To be sure, there are many +exceptions. And the whole of the above must be regarded as +private—strictly private. Breathe it not in +Kirriemuir: tell it not to the daughters of Dundee! What a +nice extract this would make for the daily papers! and how it +would facilitate my position here! . . .</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>August</i> 5<i>th</i>.</p> +<p>This is Sunday, the Lord’s Day. ‘The hour of +attack approaches.’ And it is a singular +consideration what I <a name="page348"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 348</span>risk; I may yet be the subject of a +tract, and a good tract too—such as one which I remember +reading with recreant awe and rising hair in my youth, of a boy +who was a very good boy, and went to Sunday Schule, and one day +kipped from it, and went and actually bathed, and was dashed over +a waterfall, and he was the only son of his mother, and she was a +widow. A dangerous trade, that, and one that I have to +practise. I’ll put in a word when I get home again, +to tell you whether I’m killed or not. +‘Accident in the (Paper) Hunting Field: death of a +notorious author. We deeply regret to announce the death of +the most unpopular man in Samoa, who broke his neck at the +descent of Magagi, from the misconduct of his little raving +lunatic of an old beast of a pony. It is proposed to +commemorate the incident by the erection of a suitable +pile. The design (by our local architect, Mr. Walker) is +highly artificial, with a rich and voluminous Crockett at each +corner, a small but impervious Barrièer at the entrance, +an arch at the top, an Archer of a pleasing but solid character +at the bottom; the colour will be genuine William-Black; and +Lang, lang may the ladies sit wi’ their fans in their +hands.’ Well, well, they may sit as they sat for me, +and little they’ll reck, the ungrateful jauds! Muckle +they cared about Tusitala when they had him! But now ye can +see the difference; now, leddies, ye can repent, when ower late, +o’ your former cauldness and what ye’ll perhaps allow +me to ca’ your <i>tepeedity</i>! He was beautiful as +the day, but his day is done! And perhaps, as he was maybe +gettin’ a wee thing fly-blawn, it’s nane too +shüne.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Monday</i>, <i>August</i> +6<i>th</i>.</p> +<p>Well, sir, I have escaped the dangerous conjunction of the +widow’s only son and the Sabbath Day. We had a most +enjoyable time, and Lloyd and I were 3 and 4 to arrive; I will +not tell here what interval had elapsed between our arrival and +the arrival of 1 and 2; the <a name="page349"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 349</span>question, sir, is otiose and malign; +it deserves, it shall have no answer. And now without +further delay to the main purpose of this hasty note. We +received and we have already in fact distributed the gorgeous +fahbrics of Kirriemuir. Whether from the splendour of the +robes themselves, or from the direct nature of the compliments +with which you had directed us to accompany the presentations, +one young lady blushed as she received the proofs of your +munificence. . . . Bad ink, and the dregs of it at that, but the +heart in the right place. Still very cordially interested +in my Barrie and wishing him well through his sickness, which is +of the body, and long defended from mine, which is of the head, +and by the impolite might be described as idiocy. The whole +head is useless, and the whole sitting part painful: reason, the +recent Paper Chase.</p> +<p class="poetry">There was racing and chasing in Vailile +plantation,<br /> + And vastly we enjoyed it,<br /> +But, alas! for the state of my foundation,<br /> + For it wholly has destroyed +it.</p> +<p>Come, my mind is looking up. The above is wholly +impromptu.—On oath,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Tusitala</span>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>August</i> 12, 1894</p> +<p>And here, Mr. Barrie, is news with a vengeance. Mother +Hubbard’s dog is well again—what did I tell +you? Pleurisy, pneumonia, and all that kind of truck is +quite unavailing against a Scotchman who can write—and not +only that, but it appears the perfidious dog is married. +This incident, so far as I remember, is omitted from the original +epic—</p> +<p class="poetry">She went to the graveyard<br /> +To see him get him buried,<br /> +And when she came back<br /> +The Deil had got merried.</p> +<p>It now remains to inform you that I have taken what we call +here ‘German offence’ at not receiving cards, and +that the only reparation I will accept is that Mrs. Barrie <a +name="page350"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 350</span>shall +incontinently upon the receipt of this Take and Bring you to +Vailima in order to apologise and be pardoned for this +offence. The commentary of Tamaitai upon the event was +brief but pregnant: ‘Well, it’s a comfort our +guest-room is furnished for two.’</p> +<p>This letter, about nothing, has already endured too +long. I shall just present the family to Mrs. +Barrie—Tamaitai, Tamaitai Matua, Teuila, Palema, Loia, and +with an extra low bow, Yours,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Tusitala</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Dr. Bakewell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>August</i> 7, +1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR DR. BAKEWELL</span>,—I am +not more than human. I am more human than is wholly +convenient, and your anecdote was welcome. What you say +about <i>unwilling work</i>, my dear sir, is a consideration +always present with me, and yet not easy to give its due weight +to. You grow gradually into a certain income; without +spending a penny more, with the same sense of restriction as +before when you painfully scraped two hundred a year together, +you find you have spent, and you cannot well stop spending, a far +larger sum; and this expense can only be supported by a certain +production. However, I am off work this month, and occupy +myself instead in weeding my cacao, paper chases, and the +like. I may tell you, my average of work in favourable +circumstances is far greater than you suppose: from six +o’clock till eleven at latest, <a name="citation350"></a><a +href="#footnote350" class="citation">[350]</a> and often till +twelve, and again in the afternoon from two to four. My +hand is quite destroyed, as you may perceive, to-day to a really +unusual extent. I can sometimes write a decent fist still; +but I have just returned with my arms all stung from three +hours’ work in the cacao.—Yours, etc.,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><a name="page351"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +351</span><span class="smcap">to James Payn</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Upolu</i>, +<i>Samoa</i> [<i>August</i> 11, 1894].</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR JAMES PAYN</span>,—I hear +from Lang that you are unwell, and it reminds me of two +circumstances: First, that it is a very long time since you had +the exquisite pleasure of hearing from me; and second, that I +have been very often unwell myself, and sometimes had to thank +you for a grateful anodyne.</p> +<p>They are not good, the circumstances, to write an anodyne +letter. The hills and my house at less than (boom) a +minute’s interval quake with thunder; and though I cannot +hear that part of it, shells are falling thick into the fort of +Luatuanu’u (boom). It is my friends of the +<i>Curaçoa</i>, the <i>Falke</i>, and the <i>Bussard</i> +bombarding (after all these—boom—months) the rebels +of Atua. (Boom-boom.) It is most distracting in +itself; and the thought of the poor devils in their fort (boom) +with their bits of rifles far from pleasant. +(Boom-boom.) You can see how quick it goes, and I’ll +say no more about Mr. Bow-wow, only you must understand the +perpetual accompaniment of this discomfortable sound, and make +allowances for the value of my copy. It is odd, though, I +can well remember, when the Franco-Prussian war began, and I was +in Eilean Earraid, far enough from the sound of the loudest +cannonade, I could <i>hear</i> the shots fired, and I felt the +pang in my breast of a man struck. It was sometimes so +distressing, so instant, that I lay in the heather on the top of +the island, with my face hid, kicking my heels for agony. +And now, when I can hear the actual concussion of the air and +hills, when I <i>know</i> personally the people who stand exposed +to it, I am able to go on <i>tant bien que mal</i> with a letter +to James Payn! The blessings of age, though mighty small, +are tangible. I have heard a great deal of them since I +came into the world, and now that I begin to taste of +them—Well! But this is one, that people do get cured +of the excess of sensibility; and I had <a +name="page352"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 352</span>as lief +these people were shot at as myself—or almost, for then I +should have some of the fun, such as it is.</p> +<p>You are to conceive me, then, sitting in my little gallery +room, shaken by these continual spasms of cannon, and with my eye +more or less singly fixed on the imaginary figure of my dear +James Payn. I try to see him in bed; no go. I see him +instead jumping up in his room in Waterloo Place (where <i>ex +hypothesi</i> he is not), sitting on the table, drawing out a +very black briar-root pipe, and beginning to talk to a slim and +ill-dressed visitor in a voice that is good to hear and with a +smile that is pleasant to see. (After a little more than +half an hour, the voice that was ill to hear has ceased, the +cannonade is over.) And I am thinking how I can get an +answering smile wafted over so many leagues of land and water, +and can find no way.</p> +<p>I have always been a great visitor of the sick; and one of the +sick I visited was W. E. Henley, which did not make very tedious +visits, so I’ll not get off much purgatory for them. +That was in the Edinburgh Infirmary, the old one, the true one, +with Georgius Secundus standing and pointing his toe in a niche +of the façade; and a mighty fine building it was! +And I remember one winter’s afternoon, in that place of +misery, that Henley and I chanced to fall in talk about James +Payn himself. I am wishing you could have heard that +talk! I think that would make you smile. We had mixed +you up with John Payne, for one thing, and stood amazed at your +extraordinary, even painful, versatility; and for another, we +found ourselves each students so well prepared for examinations +on the novels of the real Mackay. Perhaps, after all, this +is worth something in life—to have given so much pleasure +to a pair so different in every way as were Henley and I, and to +be talked of with so much interest by two such (beg pardon) +clever lads!</p> +<p>The cheerful Lang has neglected to tell me what is the matter +with you; so, I’m sorry to say, I am cut off from all the +customary consolations. I can’t say, ‘Think how +<a name="page353"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 353</span>much +worse it would be if you had a broken leg!’ when you may +have the crushing repartee up your sleeve, ‘But it is my +leg that is broken.’ This is a pity. But there +are consolations. You are an Englishman (I believe); you +are a man of letters; you have never been made C.B.; your hair +was not red; you have played cribbage and whist; you did not play +either the fiddle or the banjo; you were never an æsthete; +you never contributed to —<i>’s Journal</i>; your +name is not Jabez Balfour; you are totally unconnected with the +Army and Navy departments; I understand you to have lived within +your income—why, cheer up! here are many legitimate causes +of congratulation. I seem to be writing an obituary +notice. <i>Absit omen</i>! But I feel very sure that +these considerations will have done you more good than +medicine.</p> +<p>By the by, did you ever play piquet? I have fallen a +victim to this debilitating game. It is supposed to be +scientific; God save the mark, what self-deceivers men are! +It is distinctly less so than cribbage. But how +fascinating! There is such material opulence about it, such +vast ambitions may be realised—and are not; it may be +called the Monte Cristo of games. And the thrill with which +you take five cards partakes of the nature of lust—and you +draw four sevens and a nine, and the seven and nine of a suit +that you discarded, and O! but the world is a desert! You +may see traces of discouragement in my letter: all due to +piquet! There has been a disastrous turn of the luck +against me; a month or two ago I was two thousand ahead; now, and +for a week back, I have been anything from four thousand eight +hundred to five thousand two hundred astern. If I have a +sixième, my beast of a partner has a septième; and +if I have three aces, three kings, three queens, and three knaves +(excuse the slight exaggeration), the devil holds quatorze of +tens!—I remain, my dear James Payn, your sincere and +obliged friend—old friend let me say,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page354"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +354</span><span class="smcap">to Miss Middleton</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>September</i> 9, 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR MISS MIDDLETON</span>,—Your +letter has been like the drawing up of a curtain. Of course +I remember you very well, and the Skye terrier to which you +refer—a heavy, dull, fatted, graceless creature he grew up +to be—was my own particular pet. It may amuse you, +perhaps, as much as ‘The Inn’ amused me, if I tell +you what made this dog particularly mine. My father was the +natural god of all the dogs in our house, and poor Jura took to +him of course. Jura was stolen, and kept in prison +somewhere for more than a week, as I remember. When he came +back Smeoroch had come and taken my father’s heart from +him. He took his stand like a man, and positively never +spoke to my father again from that day until the day of his +death. It was the only sign of character he ever +showed. I took him up to my room and to be my dog in +consequence, partly because I was sorry for him, and partly +because I admired his dignity in misfortune.</p> +<p>With best regards and thanks for having reminded me of so many +pleasant days, old acquaintances, dead friends, and—what is +perhaps as pathetic as any of them—dead dogs, I remain, +yours truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to A. Conan Doyle</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>September</i> 9, 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CONAN DOYLE</span>,—If +you found anything to entertain you in my <i>Treasure Island</i> +article, it may amuse <a name="page355"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 355</span>you to know that you owe it entirely +to yourself. <i>Your</i> ‘First Book’ was by +some accident read aloud one night in my Baronial +’All. I was consumedly amused by it, so was the whole +family, and we proceeded to hunt up back <i>Idlers</i> and read +the whole series. It is a rattling good series, even people +whom you would not expect came in quite the proper +tone—Miss Braddon, for instance, who was really one of the +best where all are good—or all but one! . . . In +short, I fell in love with ‘The First Book’ series, +and determined that it should be all our first books, and that I +could not hold back where the white plume of Conan Doyle waved +gallantly in the front. I hope they will republish them, +though it’s a grievous thought to me that that effigy in +the German cap—likewise the other effigy of the noisome old +man with the long hair, telling indelicate stories to a couple of +deformed negresses in a rancid shanty full of +wreckage—should be perpetuated. I may seem to speak +in pleasantry—it is only a seeming—that German cap, +sir, would be found, when I come to die, imprinted on my +heart. Enough—my heart is too full. +Adieu.—Yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span><br /> +(in a German cap, damn ’em!)</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Charles Baxter</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Vailima</i>, <i>September</i> +1894.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CHARLES</span>,—. . . +Well, there is no more Edmund Baxter now; and I think I may say I +know how you feel. He was one of the best, the kindest, and +the most genial men I ever knew. I shall always remember +his brisk, cordial ways and the essential goodness which he +showed me whenever we met with gratitude. And the always is +such a little while now! He is another of the landmarks +gone; when it comes to my own turn to <a name="page356"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 356</span>lay my weapons down, I shall do so +with thankfulness and fatigue; and whatever be my destiny +afterward, I shall be glad to lie down with my fathers in +honour. It is human at least, if not divine. And +these deaths make me think of it with an ever greater +readiness. Strange that you should be beginning a new life, +when I, who am a little your junior, am thinking of the end of +mine. But I have had hard lines; I have been so long +waiting for death, I have unwrapped my thoughts from about life +so long, that I have not a filament left to hold by; I have done +my fiddling so long under Vesuvius, that I have almost forgotten +to play, and can only wait for the eruption, and think it long of +coming. Literally, no man has more wholly outlived life +than I. And still it’s good fun.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to R. A. M. Stevenson</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Vailima</i>, <i>September</i> +1894.]</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR BOB</span>,—You are in error +about the Picts. They were a Gaelic race, spoke a Celtic +tongue, and we have no evidence that I know of that they were +blacker than other Celts. The Balfours, I take it, were +plainly Celts; their name shows it—the ‘cold +croft,’ it means; so does their country. Where the +<i>black</i> Scotch come from nobody knows; but I recognise with +you the fact that the whole of Britain is rapidly and +progressively becoming more pigmented; already in one man’s +life I can decidedly <a name="page357"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 357</span>trace a difference in the children +about a school door. But colour is not an essential part of +a man or a race. Take my Polynesians, an Asiatic people +probably from the neighbourhood of the Persian gulf. They +range through any amount of shades, from the burnt hue of the Low +Archipelago islander, which seems half negro, to the +‘bleached’ pretty women of the Marquesas (close by on +the map), who come out for a festival no darker than an Italian; +their colour seems to vary directly with the degree of exposure +to the sun. And, as with negroes, the babes are born white; +only it should seem a <i>little sack</i> of pigment at the lower +part of the spine, which presently spreads over the whole +field. Very puzzling. But to return. The Picts +furnish to-day perhaps a third of the population of Scotland, say +another third for Scots and Britons, and the third for Norse and +Angles is a bad third. Edinburgh was a Pictish place. +But the fact is, we don’t know their frontiers. Tell +some of your journalist friends with a good style to popularise +old Skene; or say your prayers, and read him for yourself; he was +a Great Historian, and I was his blessed clerk, and did not know +it; and you will not be in a state of grace about the Picts till +you have studied him. J. Horne Stevenson (do you know him?) +is working this up with me, and the fact is—it’s not +interesting to the public—but it’s interesting, and +very interesting, in itself, and just now very +embarrassing—this rural parish supplied Glasgow with such a +quantity of Stevensons in the beginning of last century! +There is just a link wanting; and we might be able to go back to +the eleventh century, always undistinguished, but clearly +traceable. When I say just a link, I guess I may be taken +to mean a dozen. What a singular thing is this +undistinguished perpetuation of a family throughout the +centuries, and the sudden bursting forth of character and +capacity that began with our grandfather! But as I go on in +life, day by day, I become more of a bewildered child; I cannot +get used <a name="page358"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +358</span>to this world, to procreation, to heredity, to sight, +to hearing; the commonest things are a burthen. The prim +obliterated polite face of life, and the broad, bawdy, and +orgiastic—or mænadic—foundations, form a +spectacle to which no habit reconciles me; and ‘I could +wish my days to be bound each to each’ by the same +open-mouthed wonder. They <i>are</i> anyway, and whether I +wish it or not.</p> +<p>I remember very well your attitude to life, this conventional +surface of it. You had none of that curiosity for the +social stage directions, the trivial <i>ficelles</i> of the +business; it is simian, but that is how the wild youth of man is +captured; you wouldn’t imitate, hence you kept free—a +wild dog, outside the kennel—and came dam’ near +starving for your pains. The key to the business is of +course the belly; difficult as it is to keep that in view in the +zone of three miraculous meals a day in which we were brought +up. Civilisation has become reflex with us; you might think +that hunger was the name of the best sauce; but hunger to the +cold solitary under a bush of a rainy night is the name of +something quite different. I defend civilisation for the +thing it is, for the thing it has <i>come</i> to be, the +standpoint of a real old Tory. My ideal would be the Female +Clan. But how can you turn these crowding dumb multitudes +<i>back</i>? They don’t do anything <i>because</i>; +they do things, write able articles, stitch shoes, dig, from the +purely simian impulse. Go and reason with monkeys!</p> +<p>No, I am right about Jean Lillie. Jean Lillie, our +double great-grandmother, the daughter of David Lillie, sometime +Deacon of the Wrights, married, first, Alan Stevenson, who died +May 26, 1774, ‘at Santt Kittes of a fiver,’ by whom +she had Robert Stevenson, born 8th June 1772; and, second, in May +or June 1787, Thomas Smith, a widower, and already the father of +our grandmother. This improbable double connection always +tends to confuse a student of the family, Thomas Smith being +doubly our great-grandfather.</p> +<p><a name="page359"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 359</span>I +looked on the perpetuation of our honoured name with +veneration. My mother collared one of the photos, of +course; the other is stuck up on my wall as the chief of our +sept. Do you know any of the Gaelic-Celtic sharps? you +might ask what the name means. It puzzles me. I find +a <i>M‘Stein</i> and a <i>MacStephane</i>; and our own +great-grandfather always called himself Steenson, though he wrote +it Stevenson. There are at least three <i>places</i> called +Stevenson—<i>Stevenson</i> in Cunningham, <i>Stevenson</i> +in Peebles, and <i>Stevenson</i> in Haddington. And it was +not the Celtic trick, I understand, to call places after +people. I am going to write to Sir Herbert Maxwell about +the name, but you might find some one.</p> +<p>Get the Anglo-Saxon heresy out of your head; they superimposed +their language, they scarce modified the race; only in +Berwickshire and Roxburgh have they very largely affected the +place names. The Scandinavians did much more to Scotland +than the Angles. The Saxons didn’t come.</p> +<p>Enough of this sham antiquarianism. Yes, it is in the +matter of the book, <a name="citation359"></a><a +href="#footnote359" class="citation">[359]</a> of course, that +collaboration shows; as for the manner, it is superficially all +mine, in the sense that the last copy is all in my hand. +Lloyd did not even put pen to paper in the Paris scenes or the +Barbizon scene; it was no good; he wrote and often rewrote all +the rest; I had the best service from him on the character of +Nares. You see, we had been just meeting the man, and his +memory was full of the man’s words and ways. And +Lloyd is an impressionist, pure and simple. The great +difficulty of collaboration is that you can’t explain what +you mean. I know what kind of effect I mean a character to +give—what kind of <i>tache</i> he is to make; but how am I +to tell my collaborator in words? Hence it was necessary to +say, ‘Make him So-and-so’; and this was all right for +Nares and Pinkerton and Loudon Dodd, whom we both knew, but for +Bellairs, for instance—a man with whom I <a +name="page360"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 360</span>passed ten +minutes fifteen years ago—what was I to say? and what could +Lloyd do? I, as a personal artist, can begin a character +with only a haze in my head, but how if I have to translate the +haze into words before I begin? In our manner of +collaboration (which I think the only possible—I mean that +of one person being responsible, and giving the <i>coup de +pouce</i> to every part of the work) I was spared the obviously +hopeless business of trying to explain to my collaborator what +<i>style</i> I wished a passage to be treated in. These are +the times that illustrate to a man the inadequacy of spoken +language. Now—to be just to written language—I +can (or could) find a language for my every mood, but how could I +<i>tell</i> any one beforehand what this effect was to be, which +it would take every art that I possessed, and hours and hours of +deliberate labour and selection and rejection, to produce? +These are the impossibilities of collaboration. Its +immediate advantage is to focus two minds together on the stuff, +and to produce in consequence an extraordinarily greater richness +of purview, consideration, and invention. The hardest +chapter of all was ‘Cross Questions and Crooked +Answers.’ You would not believe what that cost us +before it assumed the least unity and colour. Lloyd wrote +it at least thrice, and I at least five times—this is from +memory. And was that last chapter worth the trouble it +cost? Alas, that I should ask the question! Two +classes of men—the artist and the educationalist—are +sworn, on soul and conscience, not to ask it. You get an +ordinary, grinning, red-headed boy, and you have to educate +him. Faith supports you; you give your valuable hours, the +boy does not seem to profit, but that way your duty lies, for +which you are paid, and you must persevere. Education has +always seemed to me one of the few possible and dignified ways of +life. A sailor, a shepherd, a schoolmaster—to a less +degree, a soldier—and (I don’t know why, upon my +soul, except as a sort of schoolmaster’s unofficial +assistant, and a kind of acrobat in tights) an artist, almost +exhaust the category.</p> +<p><a name="page361"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 361</span>If I +had to begin again—I know not—<i>si jeunesse +savait</i>, <i>si vieillesse pouvait</i> . . . I know not at +all—I believe I should try to honour Sex more +religiously. The worst of our education is that +Christianity does not recognise and hallow Sex. It looks +askance at it, over its shoulder, oppressed as it is by +reminiscences of hermits and Asiatic self-tortures. It is a +terrible hiatus in our modern religions that they cannot see and +make venerable that which they ought to see first and hallow +most. Well, it is so; I cannot be wiser than my +generation.</p> +<p>But no doubt there is something great in the half-success that +has attended the effort of turning into an emotional religion, +Bald Conduct, without any appeal, or almost none, to the +figurative, mysterious, and constitutive facts of life. Not +that conduct is not constitutive, but dear! it’s +dreary! On the whole, conduct is better dealt with on the +cast-iron ‘gentleman’ and duty formula, with as +little fervour and poetry as possible; stoical and short.</p> +<p>. . . There is a new something or other in the wind, which +exercises me hugely: anarchy,—I mean, anarchism. +People who (for pity’s sake) commit dastardly murders very +basely, die like saints, and leave beautiful letters behind +’em (did you see Vaillant to his daughter? it was the New +Testament over again); people whose conduct is inexplicable to +me, and yet their spiritual life higher than that of most. +This is just what the early Christians must have seemed to the +Romans. Is this, then, a new <i>drive</i> <a +name="citation361"></a><a href="#footnote361" +class="citation">[361]</a> among the monkeys? Mind you, +Bob, if they go on being martyred a few years more, the gross, +dull, not unkindly bourgeois may get tired or ashamed or afraid +of going on martyring; and the anarchists come out at the top +just like the early Christians. That is, of course, they +will step into power as a <i>personnel</i>, but God knows what +they may believe when they come to do so; it can’t be +stranger or more improbable than what Christianity had come to be +by the same time.</p> +<p><a name="page362"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 362</span>Your +letter was easily read, the pagination presented no difficulty, +and I read it with much edification and gusto. To look +back, and to stereotype one bygone humour—what a hopeless +thing! The mind runs ever in a thousand eddies like a river +between cliffs. You (the ego) are always spinning round in +it, east, west, north, and south. You are twenty years old, +and forty, and five, and the next moment you are freezing at an +imaginary eighty; you are never the plain forty-four that you +should be by dates. (The most philosophical language is the +Gaelic, which has <i>no present tense</i>—and the most +useless.) How, then, to choose some former age, and stick +there?</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Sir Herbert Maxwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>September</i> 10, 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR SIR HERBERT +MAXWELL</span>,—I am emboldened by reading your very +interesting Rhind Lectures to put to you a question: What is my +name, Stevenson?</p> +<p>I find it in the forms Stevinetoun, Stevensoune, Stevensonne, +Stenesone, Stewinsoune, M’Stein, and MacStephane. My +family, and (as far as I can gather) the majority of the +inglorious clan, hailed from the borders of Cunningham and +Renfrew, and the upper waters of the Clyde. In the Barony +of Bothwell was the seat of the laird Stevenson of Stevenson; +but, as of course you know, there is a parish in Cunningham and +places in Peebles and Haddington bearing the same name.</p> +<p>If you can at all help me, you will render me a real service +which I wish I could think of some manner to repay.—Believe +me, yours truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<p><i>P.S.</i>—I should have added that I have perfect +evidence before me that (for some obscure reason) Stevenson was a +favourite alias with the M‘Gregors.</p> +<h3><a name="page363"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +363</span><span class="smcap">to Alison Cunningham</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right">[<i>Vailima</i>], <i>October</i> +8<i>th</i> 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR CUMMY</span>,—So I hear +you are ailing? Think shame to yourself! So you think +there is nothing better to be done with time than that? and be +sure we can all do much ourselves to decide whether we are to be +ill or well! like a man on the gymnastic bars. We are all +pretty well. As for me, there is nothing the matter with me +in the world, beyond the disgusting circumstance that I am not so +young as once I was. Lloyd has a gymnastic machine, and +practises upon it every morning for an hour: he is beginning to +be a kind of young Samson. Austin grows fat and brown, and +gets on not so ill with his lessons, and my mother is in great +price. We are having knock-me-down weather for heat; I +never remember it so hot before, and I fancy it means we are to +have a hurricane again this year, I think; since we came here, we +have not had a single gale of wind! The Pacific is but a +child to the North Sea; but when she does get excited, and gets +up and girds herself, she can do something good. We have +had a very interesting business here. I helped the chiefs +who were in prison; and when they were set free, what should they +do but offer to make a part of my road for me out of +gratitude? Well, I was ashamed to refuse, and the trumps +dug my road for me, and put up this inscription on a +board:—</p> +<p>‘<i>Considering the great love of His Excellency +Tusitala in his loving care of us in our tribulation in the +prison we have made this great gift</i>; <i>it shall never be +muddy</i>, <i>it shall go on for ever</i>, <i>this road that we +have dug</i>!’ We had a great feast when it was done, +and I read them a kind of lecture, which I dare say Auntie will +have, and can let you see. Weel, guid bye to ye, and joy be +wi’ ye! I <a name="page364"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 364</span>hae nae time to say mair. They +say I’m gettin’ <i>fat</i>—a fact!—Your +laddie, with all love,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to James Payn</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>Nov.</i> 4, 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR JAMES PAYN</span>,—I am +asked to relate to you a little incident of domestic life at +Vailima. I had read your <i>Gleams of Memory</i>, No. 1; it +then went to my wife, to Osbourne, to the cousin that is within +my gates, and to my respected amanuensis, Mrs. Strong. +Sunday approached. In the course of the afternoon I was +attracted to the great ’all—the winders is by +Vanderputty, which upon entering I beheld a memorable +scene. The floor was bestrewn with the forms of midshipmen +from the <i>Curaçoa</i>—‘boldly say a +wilderness of gunroom’—and in the midst of this sat +Mrs. Strong throned on the sofa and reading aloud <i>Gleams of +Memory</i>. They had just come the length of your immortal +definition of boyhood in the concrete, and I had the pleasure to +see the whole party dissolve under its influence with +inextinguishable laughter. I thought this was not half bad +for arthritic gout! Depend upon it, sir, when I go into the +arthritic gout business, I shall be done with literature, or at +least with the funny business. It is quite true I have my +battlefields behind me. I have done perhaps as much work as +anybody else under the most deplorable conditions. But two +things fall to be noticed: In the first place, I never was in +actual pain; and in the second, I was never funny. +I’ll tell you the worst day that I remember. I had a +hæmorrhage, and was not allowed to speak; then, induced by +the devil, or an errant doctor, I was led to partake of that bowl +which neither cheers nor inebriates—the castor-oil +bowl. Now, when castor-oil goes right, it is one thing; but +when it goes wrong, it is another. And it went <i>wrong</i> +with me that day. <a name="page365"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 365</span>The waves of faintness and nausea +succeeded each other for twelve hours, and I do feel a legitimate +pride in thinking that I stuck to my work all through and wrote a +good deal of Admiral Guinea (which I might just as well not have +written for all the reward it ever brought me) in spite of the +barbarous bad conditions. I think that is my great boast; +and it seems a little thing alongside of your <i>Gleams of +Memory</i> illustrated by spasms of arthritic gout. We +really should have an order of merit in the trade of +letters. For valour, Scott would have had it; Pope too; +myself on the strength of that castor-oil; and James Payn would +be a Knight Commander. The worst of it is, though Lang +tells me you exhibit the courage of Huish, that not even an order +can alleviate the wretched annoyance of the business. I +have always said that there is nothing like pain; toothache, +dumb-ague, arthritic gout, it does not matter what you call it, +if the screw is put upon the nerves sufficiently strong, there is +nothing left in heaven or in earth that can interest the +sufferer. Still, even to this there is the consolation that +it cannot last for ever. Either you will be relieved and +have a good hour again before the sun goes down, or else you will +be liberated. It is something after all (although not much) +to think that you are leaving a brave example; that other +literary men love to remember, as I am sure they will love to +remember, everything about you—your sweetness, your +brightness, your helpfulness to all of us, and in particular +those one or two really adequate and noble papers which you have +been privileged to write during these last years.—With the +heartiest and kindest good-will, I remain, yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Lieutenant Eeles</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>November</i> 24, 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR EELES</span>,—The hand, +as you will perceive (and also the spelling!), is Teuila’s, +but the scrannel voice is <a name="page366"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 366</span>what remains of +Tusitala’s. First of all, for business. When +you go to London you are to charter a hansom cab and proceed to +the Museum. It is particular fun to do this on Sundays when +the Monument is shut up. Your cabman expostulates with you, +you persist. The cabman drives up in front of the closed +gates and says, ‘I told you so, sir.’ You +breathe in the porter’s ears the mystic name of +<i>Colvin</i>, and he immediately unfolds the iron barrier. +You drive in, and doesn’t your cabman think you’re a +swell. A lord mayor is nothing to it. Colvin’s +door is the only one in the eastern gable of the building. +Send in your card to him with ‘From R. L. S.’ in the +corner, and the machinery will do the rest. Henry +James’s address is 34 De Vere Mansions West. I cannot +remember where the place is; I cannot even remember on which side +of the park. But it’s one of those big Cromwell +Road-looking deserted thoroughfares out west in Kensington or +Bayswater, or between the two; and anyway, Colvin will be able to +put you on the direct track for Henry James. I do not send +formal introductions, as I have taken the liberty to prepare both +of them for seeing you already.</p> +<p>Hoskyn is staying with us.</p> +<p>It is raining dismally. The Curaçoa track is +hardly passable, but it must be trod to-morrow by the degenerate +feet of their successor the Wallaroos. I think it a very +good account of these last that we don’t think them either +deformed or habitual criminals—they seem to be a kindly +lot.</p> +<p>The doctor will give you all the gossip. I have +preferred in this letter to stick to the strictly solid and +necessary. With kind messages from all in the house to all +in the wardroom, all in the gunroom, and (may we dare to breathe +it) to him who walks abaft, believe me, my dear Eeles, yours +ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><a name="page367"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +367</span><span class="smcap">to Sir Herbert Maxwell</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>December</i> 1, 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">DEAR SIR HERBERT</span>,—Thank +you very much for your long and kind letter. I shall +certainly take your advice and call my cousin, the Lyon King, +into council. It is certainly a very interesting subject, +though I don’t suppose it can possibly lead to anything, +this connection between the Stevensons and M’Gregors. +Alas! your invitation is to me a mere derision. My chances +of visiting Heaven are about as valid as my chances of visiting +Monreith. Though I should like well to see you, shrunken +into a cottage, a literary Lord of Ravenscraig. I suppose +it is the inevitable doom of all those who dabble in Scotch soil; +but really your fate is the more blessed. I cannot conceive +anything more grateful to me, or more amusing or more +picturesque, than to live in a cottage outside your own +park-walls.—With renewed thanks, believe me, dear Sir +Herbert, yours very truly,</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Robert Louis +Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Andrew Lang</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>December</i> 1, 1894.</p> +<p><span class="GutSmall">MY DEAR LANG</span>,—For the +portrait of Braxfield, much thanks! It is engraved from the +same Raeburn portrait that I saw in ’76 or ’77 with +so extreme a gusto that I have ever since been Braxfield’s +humble servant, and am now trying, as you know, to stick him into +a novel. Alas! one might as well try to stick in +Napoleon. The picture shall be framed and hung up in my +study. Not only as a memento of you, but as a perpetual +encouragement to do better with his Lordship. I have not +yet received the <a name="page368"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +368</span>transcripts. They must be very interesting. +Do you know, I picked up the other day an old +<i>Longman’s</i>, where I found an article of yours that I +had missed, about Christie’s? I read it with great +delight. The year ends with us pretty much as it began, +among wars and rumours of wars, and a vast and splendid +exhibition of official incompetence.—Yours ever,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. <span +class="smcap">Stevenson</span>.</p> +<h3><span class="smcap">to Edmund Gosse</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Vailima</i>, <i>Samoa</i>, +<i>December</i> 1, 1894.</p> +<p>I <span class="GutSmall">AM</span> afraid, <span +class="GutSmall">MY DEAR WEG</span>, that this must be the result +of bribery and corruption! The volume to which the +dedication stands as preface seems to me to stand alone in your +work; it is so natural, so personal, so sincere, so articulate in +substance, and what you always were sure of—so rich in +adornment.</p> +<p>Let me speak first of the dedication. I thank you for it +from the heart. It is beautifully said, beautifully and +kindly felt; and I should be a churl indeed if I were not +grateful, and an ass if I were not proud. I remember when +Symonds dedicated a book to me; I wrote and told him of +‘the pang of gratified vanity’ with which I had read +it. The pang was present again, but how much more sober and +autumnal—like your volume. Let me tell you a story, +or remind you of a story. In the year of grace something or +other, anything between ’76 and ’78 I mentioned to +you in my usual autobiographical and inconsiderate manner that I +was hard up. You said promptly that you had a balance at +your banker’s, and could make it convenient to let me have +a cheque, and I accepted and got the money—how much was +it?—twenty or perhaps thirty pounds? I know +not—but it was a great convenience. The same evening, +or the next day, I <a name="page369"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +369</span>fell in conversation (in my usual autobiographical and +. . . see above) with a denizen of the Savile Club, name now gone +from me, only his figure and a dim three-quarter view of his face +remaining. To him I mentioned that you had given me a loan, +remarking easily that of course it didn’t matter to +you. Whereupon he read me a lecture, and told me how it +really stood with you financially. He was pretty serious; +fearing, as I could not help perceiving, that I should take too +light a view of the responsibility and the service (I was always +thought too light—the irresponsible jester—you +remember. O, <i>quantum mutatus ab illo</i>!) If I +remember rightly, the money was repaid before the end of the +week—or, to be more exact and a trifle pedantic, the +sennight—but the service has never been forgotten; and I +send you back this piece of ancient history, <i>consule +Planco</i>, as a salute for your dedication, and propose that we +should drink the health of the nameless one, who opened my eyes +as to the true nature of what you did for me on that +occasion.</p> +<p>But here comes my Amanuensis, so we’ll get on more +swimmingly now. You will understand perhaps that what so +particularly pleased me in the new volume, what seems to me to +have so personal and original a note, are the middle-aged pieces +in the beginning. The whole of them, I may say, though I +must own an especial liking to—</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I yearn not for the fighting fate,<br /> + That holds and hath achieved;<br /> +I live to watch and meditate<br /> + And dream—and be deceived.’</p> +<p>You take the change gallantly. Not I, I must +confess. It is all very well to talk of renunciation, and +of course it has to be done. But, for my part, give me a +roaring toothache! I do like to be deceived and to dream, +but I have very little use for either watching or +meditation. I was not born for age. And, curiously +enough, I seem <a name="page370"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +370</span>to see a contrary drift in my work from that which is +so remarkable in yours. You are going on sedately +travelling through your ages, decently changing with the years to +the proper tune. And here am I, quite out of my true +course, and with nothing in my foolish elderly head but +love-stories. This must repose upon some curious +distinction of temperaments. I gather from a phrase, boldly +autobiographical, that you are—well, not precisely growing +thin. Can that be the difference?</p> +<p>It is rather funny that this matter should come up just now, +as I am at present engaged in treating a severe case of middle +age in one of my stories—‘The +Justice-Clerk.’ The case is that of a woman, and I +think that I am doing her justice. You will be interested, +I believe, to see the difference in our treatments. +<i>Secreta Vitæ</i>, comes nearer to the case of my poor +Kirstie. Come to think of it, Gosse, I believe the main +distinction is that you have a family growing up around you, and +I am a childless, rather bitter, very clear-eyed, blighted +youth. I have, in fact, lost the path that makes it easy +and natural for you to descend the hill. I am going at it +straight. And where I have to go down it is a +precipice.</p> +<p>I must not forget to give you a word of thanks for <i>An +English Village</i>. It reminds me strongly of Keats, which +is enough to say; and I was particularly pleased with the +petulant sincerity of the concluding sentiment.</p> +<p>Well, my dear Gosse, here’s wishing you all health and +prosperity, as well as to the mistress and the bairns. May +you live long, since it seems as if you would continue to enjoy +life. May you write many more books as good as this +one—only there’s one thing impossible, you can never +write another dedication that can give the same pleasure to the +vanished</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Tusitala</span>.</p> +<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2> +<p><a name="footnote11"></a><a href="#citation11" +class="footnote">[11]</a> In <i>Underwoods</i> the lines +thus queried stand with the change: ‘Life is over; life was +gay.’</p> +<p><a name="footnote12"></a><a href="#citation12" +class="footnote">[12]</a> <i>Prince Otto</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote20"></a><a href="#citation20" +class="footnote">[20]</a> The name of the hero in +Dostoieffsky’s <i>Le Crime et le Châtiment</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote37"></a><a href="#citation37" +class="footnote">[37]</a> <i>Suite anglaise</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote48a"></a><a href="#citation48a" +class="footnote">[48a]</a> <i>The Merry Men</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote48b"></a><a href="#citation48b" +class="footnote">[48b]</a> <i>Memories and +Portraits</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote48c"></a><a href="#citation48c" +class="footnote">[48c]</a> <i>Underwoods</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote66"></a><a href="#citation66" +class="footnote">[66]</a> The sum was really +£700.</p> +<p><a name="footnote70"></a><a href="#citation70" +class="footnote">[70]</a> ‘But she was more than +usual calm,<br /> +She did not give a single dam.’—<i>Marjorie +Fleming</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote83"></a><a href="#citation83" +class="footnote">[83]</a> The secretary was really, I +believe, Lord Pollington.</p> +<p><a name="footnote86"></a><a href="#citation86" +class="footnote">[86]</a> ‘Smith opens out his cauld +harangues<br /> +On practice and on morals.’</p> +<p>The Rev. George Smith of Galston, the minister thus referred +to by Burns (in the <i>Holy Fair</i>), was a great-grandfather of +Stevenson on the mother’s side; and against Stevenson +himself, in his didactic moods, the passage was often quoted by +his friends when they wished to tease him.</p> +<p><a name="footnote114"></a><a href="#citation114" +class="footnote">[114]</a> The French; the Marquesas, +Paumotus, and Tahiti being all dependencies of France.</p> +<p><a name="footnote132"></a><a href="#citation132" +class="footnote">[132]</a> King Kalakaua.</p> +<p><a name="footnote133"></a><a href="#citation133" +class="footnote">[133]</a> This is the Canadian poet Mr. +Archibald Lampman, the news of whose death reaches England as +these sheets are preparing for the press.</p> +<p><a name="footnote137"></a><a href="#citation137" +class="footnote">[137]</a> Stevenson’s stepdaughter, +Mrs. Strong, who was at this time living at Honolulu, and joined +his party and family for good when they continued their voyage +from thence in the following June.</p> +<p><a name="footnote141"></a><a href="#citation141" +class="footnote">[141]</a> The following is the letter in +question:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘I make you to know my great +affection. At the hour when you left us, I was filled with +tears; my wife, Rui Telime, also, and all of my household. +When you embarked I felt a great sorrow. It is for this +that I went upon the road, and you looked from that ship, and I +looked at you on the ship with great grief until you had raised +the anchor and hoisted the sails. When the ship started I +ran along the beach to see you still; and when you were on the +open sea I cried out to you, “Farewell Louis”; and +when I was coming back to my house I seemed to hear your voice +crying “Rui farewell.” Afterwards I watched the +ship as long as I could until the night fell; and when it was +dark I said to myself, “If I had wings I should fly to the +ship to meet you, and to sleep amongst you, so that I might be +able to come back to shore and to tell Rui Telime, ‘I have +slept upon the ship of Teriitera.’” After that +we passed that night in the impatience of grief. Towards +eight o’clock I seemed to hear your voice, +“Teriitera—Rui—here is the hour for +<i>putter</i> and <i>tiro</i>” (cheese and syrup). I +did not sleep that night, thinking continually of you, my very +dear friend, until the morning; being then still awake, I went to +see Tapina Tutu on her bed, and alas, she was not there. +Afterwards I looked into your rooms; they did not please me as +they used to do. I did not hear your voice saying, “Hail +Rui”; I thought then that you had gone, and that you had +left me. Rising up, I went to the beach to see your ship, +and I could not see it. I wept, then, until the night, +telling myself continually, “Teriitera returns into his own +country and leaves his dear Rui in grief, so that I suffer for +him, and weep for him.” I will not forget you in my +memory. Here is the thought: I desire to meet you +again. It is my dear Teriitera makes the only riches I +desire in this world. It is your eyes that I desire to see +again. It must be that your body and my body shall eat +together at one table: there is what would make my heart +content. But now we are separated. May God be with +you all. May His word and His mercy go with you, so that +you may be well and we also, according to the words of Paul.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ori</span> A <span +class="smcap">Ori</span>, that is to say, <span +class="smcap">Rui</span>.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><a name="footnote152"></a><a href="#citation152" +class="footnote">[152]</a> The Polynesian name for white +men.</p> +<p><a name="footnote170"></a><a href="#citation170" +class="footnote">[170]</a> Table of chapter headings +follows.</p> +<p><a name="footnote187"></a><a href="#citation187" +class="footnote">[187]</a> French <i>bâtons +rompus</i>: disconnected thoughts or studies.</p> +<p><a name="footnote190"></a><a href="#citation190" +class="footnote">[190]</a> The Rev. Dr. Hyde, of Honolulu: +in reference to Stevenson’s letter on Father Damien.</p> +<p><a name="footnote198"></a><a href="#citation198" +class="footnote">[198]</a> Afterwards re-named <i>The Ebb +Tide</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote201"></a><a href="#citation201" +class="footnote">[201]</a> His letters.</p> +<p><a name="footnote220"></a><a href="#citation220" +class="footnote">[220]</a> <i>The Misadventures of John +Nicholson</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote245"></a><a href="#citation245" +class="footnote">[245]</a> <i>i.e.</i> On the stage.</p> +<p><a name="footnote271"></a><a href="#citation271" +class="footnote">[271]</a> A character in <i>The +Wrecker</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote272"></a><a href="#citation272" +class="footnote">[272]</a> The lad Austin Strong.</p> +<p><a name="footnote292"></a><a href="#citation292" +class="footnote">[292]</a> John Addington Symonds.</p> +<p><a name="footnote298a"></a><a href="#citation298a" +class="footnote">[298a]</a> <i>Across the Plains</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote298b"></a><a href="#citation298b" +class="footnote">[298b]</a> Volume of Sonnets by +José Maria de Hérédia.</p> +<p><a name="footnote311"></a><a href="#citation311" +class="footnote">[311]</a> <i>The Window in Thrums</i>, +with illustrations by W. Hole, R.S.A. Hodder and Stoughton. +1892.</p> +<p><a name="footnote320"></a><a href="#citation320" +class="footnote">[320]</a> This question is with a view to +the adventures of the hero in <i>St. Ives</i>, who, according to +Stevenson’s original plan, was to have been picked up from +his foundered balloon by an American privateer.</p> +<p><a name="footnote323"></a><a href="#citation323" +class="footnote">[323]</a> As to admire <i>The Black +Arrow</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote332"></a><a href="#citation332" +class="footnote">[332]</a> In the book the genealogy is +given as a diagram. It has been converted to text for this +transcription so it’s available for everyone, with the +original diagram below.—DP.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p332b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"The Genealogy" +title= +"The Genealogy" + src="images/p332s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p><a name="footnote337"></a><a href="#citation337" +class="footnote">[337]</a> Word omitted in <span +class="GutSmall">MS</span>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote347"></a><a href="#citation347" +class="footnote">[347]</a> <i>Sentimental Tommy</i>: whose +chief likeness to R. L. S. was meant to be in the literary +temperament and passion for the <i>mot propre</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote350"></a><a href="#citation350" +class="footnote">[350]</a> <i>Sic</i>: query +‘least’?</p> +<p><a name="footnote359"></a><a href="#citation359" +class="footnote">[359]</a> Of <i>The Wrecker</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote361"></a><a href="#citation361" +class="footnote">[361]</a> <i>Trieb</i>, impulse</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LETTERS OF ROBERT LOUIS +STEVENSON TO HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS - VOLUME 2 [OF 2]***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 637-h.htm or 637-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/3/637 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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